


Princes and Kings

by bloominsummer



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Arranged Marriage, Alternate Universe - Medieval, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-08
Updated: 2018-06-08
Packaged: 2019-05-19 15:36:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 30,209
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14876528
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bloominsummer/pseuds/bloominsummer
Summary: Derek and Stiles met under dire circumstances, but they made it work. They always do.





	Princes and Kings

**Author's Note:**

> It's been a long time since I had the time to write and this has been a work in progress for about six months now, but I'm very excited to share this with all of you.
> 
> Disclaimer: I don't own the characters in this fic. No copyright infringement is intended.

Prince Stiles of Armoor leans against the wooden table in the middle of the meeting room, his brother standing next to him with his face set in a grim line. Their father, the King, holds his head in his hands, staring aimlessly at the battle plans strewn carelessly in front of him.

The young prince breaks the silence.

“This war has to end.”

His father looks up at him. “A treaty on paper means very little after everything.”

“Then I will propose to the young princess,” his brother replies, instantly. One of the admirable fact about Scott is that he is quick to put aside anything of self-interest when it comes to serving his country.

“You are promised, Scott. To your love.”

Stiles puts a hand on his brother’s shoulder, preventing him from voicing his complaint. “Father’s right. You are betrothed to Lady Allison.”

“Then what do you suggest?”

He considers the question, although at this point, he knows what must be done already. He has an answer. He has been thinking about it for quite awhile, now. It is definitely not the ideal thing to do, especially for Stiles, but it might just work and save a whole nation from further suffering.

“An engagement is too futile, especially to the princess. She’s shy three, four years from maturity. The war needs to end in a fortnight. We no longer have the power, the resources, or the men to fuel it. We need something binding and concrete, something unquestionable,” he pauses for effect. “For instance, a marriage.”

“The princess is too young to marry,” his father points out. “The older sister is out of the question, she’s in line to be Queen of Wessex. I don’t have any daughters to give for marriage. It seems we are at a dead end, my sons. ”

Stiles has an answer for this, too.

“Offer me. To their crown prince.”

It has always been a public secret that the crown prince in question does not discriminate in terms of gender who he takes into his chambers.

“You?!” his brother exclaims, at the same time as their father’s confounded, “The crown prince?” is voiced.

He nods.

Scott closes his eyes. “That’s an idea.”

“Why not?”

He gives Stiles a look that says he’s being ridiculous and completely out of the question, which is to say, not uncommon coming from him.

“You said it yourself, he’s the crown prince. He needs to continue the line and produce an heir to his throne.”

“I don’t see the problem. Bastards are not shunned in their culture, they’re considered a product of passion. He can have a child with any royal lady he wishes to have and I’ll raise the child as I would my own.”

He knows he’s making all the right points, he can see it in the subtle nods his father is giving the thought. He has foreseen every loophole there is to the theory and come out with solutions to each one.

“No,” his brother says sternly.

Resistance such as this is expected from Scott. Stiles is younger than him, granted only by a couple years, but Scott will continue to wear the protective older brother trope until their respective deaths, if not further.

“Scott.”

“Stiles, no. Their King has been sick for months now, he will be gone soon. We can wait it out and talk treaty with his more level-headed heir,” he reasons.

Stiles supposes this could happen, although very unlikely. The King of Mercia is tired and has been bed-ridden for the past half-year. He hates to have ill wishes against anyone, but he would be lying if he says he’s never hoped the King would have died before he could declare war against Armoor.

He wants to point out that there are no reasons to believe that the crown prince would be more pliable to the prospect of peace, as he has been carrying out his father’s wishes by continuing the attacks anyway. The words almost escape him before he realises that it would not help his case to share this insight.

"The only reason they're not attacking us as hard of late is because of his condition. If he recovers, the only thing we will be waiting for is death. Do you want to welcome it with open arms or do you want to prevent it from happening while we still can?"

Stiles turns to his father, looking for support. “This is the way.”

“I have always said my children will marry for love. Will you make a liar out of your old man?”

“A liar? I would never do such things, Father. I _will_ marry for love. Perhaps not love for him, but love for my country, my people, my family.”

His father sighs heavily though he is showing signs of defeat. It pains Stiles to see how a simple dispute over land has led to a much greater burden that will now forever be rested on his father’s shoulder.

Scott, on the other hand, is not so easily persuaded.

“We could give them Rachdale.”

They couldn’t. They couldn’t afford to even think about it.

“Then they will move on to the next city, and the next, and so on until there's nothing left for us to give,” Stiles counters.

King Noah raises a hand then, a gesture that says, _enough_. His mind is made even as he gives no clue to what he’s decided.

“The war has been going for two years, yet this is when I feel most afraid.”

He looks at Stiles, tiredly.

“Don’t be, Father. I am brave.”

“I know, but I love you. What kind of Father sends his son to bed the great leader of the enemy’s army?”

“The wise kind.”

The King looks away from his sons, then raises from his chair and walks out of the room without saying another word.

Stiles turns to retire to his room, but Scott’s hand grips his shoulder wouldn’t allow him. Stiles looks at the place where the hand rests, then raises his gaze to meet Scott’s eyes, questioning the meaning of his action.

“You don’t have to do this.”

He’s pleading.

Stiles doesn’t know how to tell him that he’s decided on this particular course of action even before bringing the idea to the table.

“You will have to marry first, per tradition. I can not overstep you. How do seven days from now sound?”

Scott wrenches away his hand, his breathing hard. He is frustrated, rightly so.

“You are not listening to me.”

“No, you are not listening to me. I’m second-born. I have no prospective partner. I don’t matter unless you plan on dying before marrying Allison, which I’m pretty sure you’ll be too stubborn to do. You just won’t die before saying your vows.”

“You’re wrong,” he shakes his head in disagreement.

Not having much time left to share with him, Stiles decides to entertain his reply.

“Which part?”

Scott’s face is twisted in pure agony, like it hurts him physically to get the words out, but the tone of his voice is nothing if not sincere.

“You matter. To me, most of all.”

Stiles breathes softly.

“Then let me do this, brother. Trust me.”

* * *

Allison, if anything, was sweet and understanding. A little excited, perhaps. She knows she was to marry Scott and become a princess, though her initial understanding was it would not happen for a couple more years. Until Armoor is stable and free of war.

She agreed to marry Scott in the palace within three days of being informed and preparations were made as quickly as possible. They kept the ceremony simple and elegant as the country is still experiencing hardship from the war and it was not good-natured to hold a lavish wedding. Nothing that was not necessary was to be seen in the castle. It was the single happiest day Stiles has seen Scott since the war began and it felt great to know that he played a part in speeding things up for the happy couple. His brother, although naturally talented at sword-fighting and riding, is not very well-versed in romance. Not that Stiles can say he's any better.

Now they are standing opposite from each other, on either side of their father's throne, ready to welcome the honoured guest. Scott is nervous, Stiles can tell. His brother keeps fumbling around with his wedding band, changing his pose every now and then, each one looking more unnatural than the last. Their father is generally better at hiding his feelings, but the way he keeps raising a hand to wipe at his forehead is a dead giveaway to Stiles.

The bell rings. The guest party has arrived.

The Crown Prince Diederik of Mercia stands tall under the archway. He has a well-sculpted face along with a short stubble that puts extra emphasis on his sharp jawline. As he walks into the throne room with his royal gown sweeping the floor behind him, the people of the court couldn’t help but follow his every movement. He looks handsome, Stiles will give him that. Regal.

He has seen the prince in action many times before, from the top of a hill or behind the tree line where he was mostly hidden by the landscape, but had never fought him directly in battle. Diederik struck down the men who were in his way without hesitation, his sword a flawless extension of his arm, completely under his command. He’s only four years older than Stiles is, yet his skills and confidence are unparalleled by any living man across the continent. Mercia has not lost any battles that he’s led. To rub more salt on the wound, even Stiles’ strategies proven ineffective against his. In different circumstances, Stiles would have grown to admire him.

No one from the Mercian royal family came with him, as his visit will be short-lived. The plan is for him to come to Armoor and wed Stiles, signing both their marriage papers and carefully crafted treaty agreement. It surrenders Rachdale over to Mercian rules, with the condition that its original inhabitants are to be let to stay and continue their farming there. Stiles can only hope they will make it through to the signing without any incidents.

As Diederik walks in confident strides, his men follow after him, each and every one of them a proud face in support of their leader. The curly-haired man who walks right behind him has a golden brooch pinned on his gown. Stiles draws the conclusion that the man is the captain of the Prince’s Guard.

He finally makes his way to the steps, and where any other man would bow to the King, Diederik instead halts and straightens his back. He greets Stiles’ father with the proper niceties required of him before shifting his eyes to Stiles.

“My betrothed,” he calls out, his voice sweet and pleasing.

Scott fidgets across from him, anxious. Stiles takes a deep breath. He can do this.

“Prince Diederik.”

“If it pleases you, you can call me Derek.”

Diederik, Derek, then climbs the rest of the steps to get to where Stiles is and takes Stiles’ hand to his mouth, kissing it. An intimate gesture, though faux, only meant to please the people. It feels wrong.

His father clears his throat.

“Prince Diederik is to be escorted to his room, as he had traveled a long way from home. The wedding will be held tomorrow as scheduled, in the palace garden.”

Derek carefully steps down without turning his back on the throne, a sign of respect to the man sitting on it.

Stiles has to remind himself to unclench his fists after Derek disappears down the long hallway, though not before he has left half-moon marks on his palms from digging his nails in.

* * *

The ceremony was uneventful, mostly because Stiles’ head was not in it. It might be due to the fact that he didn’t get much sleep the previous night. In contrast to the mess that was Stiles, Prince Derek showed no signs of distress or unease as he navigated himself through the garden. To Stiles’ surprise, he wore the traditional Armoorian clothes to the makeshift altar instead of his Mercian garment, a matching dress to his own, only of a different colour. It was well-fitted, the silk clung to his body and made the rest of his features even more prominent. He said his vows according to Stiles’ culture and sounded like he meant every word. Stiles had tried his best to mimic him.

He signed the treaty and shook hands with Stiles’ father, who looked about as unhappy as he felt about the wedding. Derek didn’t seem to mind.

Scott watched Stiles very closely for any signs of a breakdown. He and the Mercian captain had that in common. Derek received most of the congratulations: on the treaty, on his marriage, on his future. The lords and ladies pestered him for news of his father, the Mercian King, to which he replied diplomatically without giving out too much.

And now they are having a feast.

“We leave tomorrow at first light,” Derek informs him. His words shake Stiles out of his reverie. He hasn’t touched his food and only let his fingers trace the rim of his wine goblet.

“Yes,” he replies.

“If you wish to stay longer, you can follow me whenever it pleases you.”

A trap, Stiles thinks. To not present a united front after what is supposed to be a union is a mistake Stiles cannot be tricked into making.

“No, we will leave on the morrow. Together.”

Together. The word sounds strange coming from his mouth, especially used to describe him and Derek. The crown prince does not seem to notice Stiles’ hesitation. He lifts his goblet and tilts it back, drinking all the liquid inside. The golden band resting on his ring finger shines brightly as the light from the chandelier is reflected on it.

* * *

 

They did not sleep together the first night in Armoor, it was not even a thought that crossed Stiles’ mind. After the feast, they had retired to their separate room in different wings of the castle and regrouped the next morning for their journey to Mercia. That might be why the question Derek poses to him in their joined chambers catches him completely off-guard.

Stiles is sitting on the edge of the bed, simply admiring the interior design of the room, when Derek breaks the silence.

“Will you try to kill me in my sleep?”

He sounds nonchalant, almost bored. As if he welcomes the idea. Maybe he does, Stiles couldn’t tell for sure.

“What? No,” Stiles stares at Derek as he undresses. “Will you?”

Derek undoes the laces on the front of his shirt and pulls it over his head, tossing it aside. He turns his back on Stiles to look for his night robe and Stiles couldn’t help but notice the healed skin on his back. Whip marks.

Derek must have felt him staring, because he turns around and flushes, like he just accidentally allowed Stiles a sneak peek into something personal. Stiles points his finger to the wooden stool next to where Derek is standing, his night robe placed neatly on top of it. The older man grabs it and throws it over his body.

“I thought of it,” he admits lightly.

It should have not been a surprise to Stiles. The words would have carried more meaning or felt threatening to Stiles if it isn’t for Derek’s indifferent tone.

“Why?”

A sharp look is cast in Stiles’ direction.

“‘Why?’ I might not have seen you in battles often but I know you are behind the tactics that sent many of the people under my command to their demise.”

“I can assure you, I have not killed as many your men as you have killed mine.”

“Not directly, you have not,” Derek comments as he shrugs off his shoes. “I know your father does not let you and your brother go into battle together.”

Derek is definitely in his element here, completely comfortable in his own skin, his own room, his own country. Stiles can hardly say the same. While Derek has been spending the last couple minutes preparing himself for bed, Stiles is still fully clothed, his robe not even discarded. He feels more vulnerable now than he’s ever been fighting in a sea of men.

“He does not want to bury both his children on the same day, was what he told us.”

Stiles doesn’t know why he offers that information up willingly.

Derek pours water from the jug to one of the cups from the small table in the corner of the room, raising it in Stiles’ direction. Stiles shakes his head politely, declining the offer.

“He’s a loving father?”

“Yes, he is,” he confirms.

“Then him offering you as a gift to the enemy must have felt like a knife to the back.”

There is something off-putting about Derek’s tone. The statement is meant to hurt, but Stiles doesn’t detect any hint that it bears malice. It seems like, to him, that Derek’s trying to see how far he can push before Stiles breaks. He’s being tested.

He replies as calmly as he could, “It was my idea.”

“Your idea,” Derek reiterates. He doesn’t believe it.

“Yes.”

“You wanted this to happen?”

“I wanted to end the war.”

Derek raises his eyebrows. If Stiles doesn’t know better, he would say that the crown prince looks impressed. “I might be the future king, but from now on I fear that I will always be a pawn in your game.”

Stiles stares, unsure of how to reply. It’s true that he’s thought out everything from the treaty signing to the getting to marry Derek part, but he has no clue what to do now that he’s actually passed all that. Will he get away with being hostile all the time? Or is obedience expected of him, always, if he wants the peace to hold?

One wrong reply can make his life here miserable.

Derek watches him for a moment, before setting his cup back on the table and walking away.

“You can have the main bed,” he says to Stiles over his shoulder. “I will take the one down the hall.”

Stiles lays down on the mattress after he’s gone and lets sleep takes him under.

* * *

Derek is nowhere to be found in the morning, but there are trays of food waiting for him when he wakes up. He tries a little bit of everything before he stops dead in his tracks, realising he doesn’t have any idea whether the food has been poisoned or not. Although starving, he decides against eating more.

He comes out to the balcony to get some fresh air and notices the view outside for the first time. It was nightfall when he arrived last night, which is why he didn’t realise his room is facing a garden, a huge garden that has a small circular labyrinth in the middle.

He dresses with the clothes prepared by the servants, although he suspects that he’s not wearing them properly. He couldn’t find a brooch to pin the robe over his tunic nor any scabbard for his sword, but he goes out anyway. If he hides in the labyrinth, maybe time will pass quickly enough for the day to be over by the time he’s found.

Halfway through the stone walkway, Stiles notices a couple of ladies walking from his right. Taking a leisure stroll In her casual dress and an umbrella held over her head is Princess Cora. Stiles slows his pace, it would be rude not to entertain a conversation with her.

“Hello.”

Her voice is sweet, which reminds him of how Derek sounded the first time he called out to Stiles, but from Cora it just sounds clearer, trained. No hesitation, no act.

“Hello, Princess Cora. You look absolutely radiant.”

She does. Her features are similar to that of her brother’s and they both are gifted in the genes department. Her beauty is soft and delicate, whereas Derek’s is chiseled and symmetric. Stiles couldn’t help but wonder how their older sister might look like.

“Thank you, I am just out for some sunlight. Care to join me for a walk in the garden?”

Stiles offers his arm which the princess gracefully accepts. They walk together, her calming presence instantly therapeutic to Stiles.

“I want to thank you. I hope I’m not stepping out of line,” she says after a while.

Stiles doesn’t understand. This is the first time he’s met her, so he definitely hasn’t done her any favours.

“Thank me for what?”

“I might not be old enough to understand battle strategies, I’m two summers away from my eighteenth name day and ladies are not typically educated in the arts of war, so to speak. But I am aware that you made a great sacrifice by being here.”

He’s beginning to follow her meaning.

“My Princess—“

“Please, let me finish. We are equal here, you can call me Cora if it pleases you,” she pauses. Stiles gives her a nod, as to let her continue. “You have chosen to live the rest of your life—may it be a long one—in a strange country, with its strange people and etiquette, a great distance from home. Away from the people you love and things you are familiar with. All this so the fighting can stop. You saved my people, your people, and most importantly, my brother.”

“Your brother,” he reiterates. What exactly is he saving Derek from?

“Yes. He is a great warrior.”

That’s true.

“He is, I have witnessed it with my own eyes,” Stiles shares with her as much.

“The act of killing is not something that comes easily to him. He is not my father.” Then, Cora really shocks him. He’s been surprised with her candour and openness since she first started speaking, but this is a whole new level of trust. “He is a better man. Less cold, more genuine.”

“I didn’t know. To be quite honest, I haven’t put much thought into how it affects Mercia. The war, it’s—”

She cuts him off, not impolitely, her hold on his arm tightens a little.

“It matters not. I am just saying this to thank you and to let you know that you might intend to save your people, but you have saved more than just them.”

* * *

"Your sister is very wise for her age," he tells Derek over dinner that night. He takes the precaution of only taking whatever Derek puts in his own plate and only eating after Derek does to avoid being poisoned. So far, so good.

Derek swallows before replying, “She takes after our mother.”

His answer reminds Stiles of another thing he's yet to check off his list.

“Speaking of the queen, I had a mind to go visit her today, but they said she’d given orders to not be disturbed.”

“You can go visit her in the morning," Derek tells him. "Today she’s praying for my father.”

“Of course, for his health and recovery.”

“Maybe,” Derek hums absentmindedly. Stiles wonders what that meant.

* * *

They are watching the soldiers train in the courtyard. The curly-haired captain, Isaac, is shouting orders and giving corrections to their stances, their grips on their swords. Derek watches them and Stiles watches him.

Someone from the target practice area shoots a misguided arrow that lands near where the three men are standing. Stiles steps forward and picks it up, examining the fletching carefully.

“I don’t like him," comes the voice from behind him. Isaac. He hasn't been giving Stiles a hard time or he would have done something about it by now, but his dislike is not as well contained as one might expect from a subordinate.

Stiles turns around and glares at him, unappreciative of the gesture.

“ _He_ can hear you.”

Isaac bows, mocking.

“I am truly sorry, Your Highness.”

Hopeless that anything he says can generate a more positive attitude from him, Stiles glances at Derek, asking for a reaction, any reaction.

“Are you going to stand by this?”

Derek, who is still watching the soldiers practice, doesn't even turn around to face Stiles as he replies, “What do you want me to do? Defend your honour? You are not some helpless princess.”

“You’re right,” Stiles says, stepping forward. He unsheathes his sword from his belt and raises the tip towards the young captain. Then he says, “Draw.”

Isaac's eyes are playful. He's not sure what the appropriate response is here, since raising a weapon against a member of the royal family is punishable by death in Mercia. He hesitates in his movement, looking over at Derek for guidance.

“My prince?”

This time, Derek finally tears his eyes away from the courtyard long enough to take in the situation unfolding in front of him. He has a curious look on his face, as if he wants to see what Stiles is truly capable of with his sword.

“He’s challenging you, Isaac," he comments, as if just now noticing it.

“Yes, my prince. What do I do about it?”

Derek nods.

“What you want to.”

Isaac draws his sword and Stiles takes his stance.

"I'll give you a chance to wear a helmet, if you'd like," Isaac taunts him, his curls bopping up and down as he measures down Stiles' figure. Stiles doesn’t reply, instead he thrusts his sword to the left but makes a move in the opposite direction at the last second, knocking Isaac's sword to the ground.

He doesn't know why, but he turns to Derek. Maybe he subconsciously wants to prove himself something more than what Derek must think of him. Maybe it's approval he seeks. He gets none of it because Derek once again is not watching them, gaze turned away almost purposefully.

Isaac takes this moment when Stiles is slightly distracted to grab his sword and advance toward him, full-force but not reckless. Stiles sidesteps at just the right time. A second too late and Isaac would have run him through the shoulder.

They spar, then, for real. Isaac is good, that much was clear from before their fight. He is perhaps Stiles' age and already a captain to the crown prince. That means he was deemed a good enough warrior with sharpened instincts, not to mention he survived the war.

Stiles is leaner than him and a little smaller. It doesn't take long for Isaac to tire, swinging around his heavy sword and continuously missing Stiles' body. He carries his weight on his left leg and it becomes noticeable after awhile, so Stiles comes up with a plan in his head while still dodging Isaac's sword. He should be getting an award for this.

He gets his opening when Isaac takes a step back to regain his composure and slow his breathing before going back in. When he does, Stiles crouches and slips his feet in between Isaac's, then lifts. Isaac falls with a loud thud. Stiles quickly grabs his sword and positions it on Isaac's throat, steel meeting skin.

“Yield,” Stiles tells him coolly.

Derek, still not watching them, advises his captain. “I would yield, if I were you. He has got two knives hidden in his boots.”

There's a funny feeling in Stiles' heart knowing that Derek was paying at least enough attention to notice that.

* * *

Stiles has been actively seeking the Queen’s audience since he arrived, but for some mysterious reasons, she has always been unavailable. It comes as a surprise to him to find her waiting by the stables when he comes back from riding one day. The stables, of any place.

“Queen Talia,” he says, dismounting. He hands the reign to the stableboy who guides his horse towards the back, to let it graze and drink after the ride.

She regards him with a curt nod. He wants to kiss her hand out of courtesy, but she doesn’t look like she’s in the mood to offer it.

“Prince Stiles.”

“I haven’t had the chance to dine with you,” he tries to play the diplomat.

“There is no need. We will dine together in the Great Hall tonight, and I will be happy have you seated next to me.”

Stiles smiles then, offering her a genuine piece of interaction. This might be going better than he predicted.

“I could not think of a better way for us to get familiar.”

The Queen takes a step forward then and the way she carries herself makes Stiles move backward. She notices this, causing Stiles to flush. Did he just feel threatened by her?

He doesn’t have much time to think about it before it’s proven that his instincts serve him well.

“I have no problems with your country and the war you fought was one between men, but if you hurt my son, I will slit your throat in your sleep,” she says with poise. “The treaty will not protect you from a mother’s wrath.”

Stiles stares at her, wide-eyed. A proper response, given that she’s just given her promise to kill him. A servant girl he’s never seen before suddenly appears from the entrance of the stable, as if on cue. She walks quickly towards the queen and does not even bat an eye at Stiles.

The girl whispers something to her, to which the queen nods in understanding.

“Excuse me, I have matters to attend to.”

She turns around and leaves with the servant girl following in her steps, hopelessly trying to lift her gown from the ground to prevent dirt stains on it.

Stiles’ heart beats fast against his ribcage as it dawns on him that she wasn’t kidding at all.

* * *

It’s safe to assume that Stiles was not looking forward to dinner. Seated between Derek and the queen without an insurance policy might not be the best idea he’s ever had. He didn’t even know if Derek will come to his rescue if anything were to happen.

Nothing did, though. Queen Talia acted as if their entire confrontation in the stables never occurred and carried the conversation conventionally, even going as far as asking if Stiles is getting everything he needs. It was eerie, to say the least.

When they retire to their chamber, Stiles taps on Derek’s forearm to get his attention.

Derek turns his head towards Stiles, eyebrows raised in question.

“Your mother scares me,” he tells Derek.

Derek leans in close to him, as if he’s going to tell him an important secret. “Not surprised. Laura and she are very much alike in that sense. Laura’s worse, though.”

“Can’t wait to meet her,” Stiles sighs, rubbing at his forehead. “Is no one in this family friendly?”

“Hey,” Derek protests, the most genial Stiles has ever seen him thus far. “Cora is.”

Stiles scoffs. Derek walks away from him, probably to go sleep in the other room, but then it seems like he remembers something. He stops and reaches into the drawer near the bed, pulling out something wrapped in cloth.

“I almost forgot. I have something to give you,” he hands the item to Stiles.

Stiles accepts it from Derek. “What’s this?”

Derek gestures for him to open it, which he does. A dagger lies inside the packaging, tucked safely in its leather scabbard. Stiles pulls it out carefully, admires the details presented from the blade to the handle. It’s not fancy, just a hint of gold barely showing, but the elegance of it can’t be argued with.

He doesn’t know what to say.

“I observed your fighting pattern from before,” Derek pipes in, explaining himself. “You’re better with close proximity combat and carrying around a sword isn’t always practical, hence, the dagger.”

Stiles, with his big and apparently hollow brain, just stands there looking at him.

“I… thank you?”

“You’re welcome,” Derek says, without a smile.

He traces the handle of the weapon. “This is traditional Armoorian etching,” he comments.

Derek nods. “Ah, yes. I told the blacksmith to make it so and I think he manages to make it look like the ones from the book, but I actually don’t know if it’s accurate. If you wish to get it redone, just tell Isaac and he’ll be happy to do it for you.”

He doesn’t point out that Isaac would much rather stab him with it than help him do anything else to it. He settles for a sarcastic, “Really?”

Derek catches his meaning. “In Mercia, beating a man in a duel means you earn his respect,” he reassures Stiles, though he adds, “Grudgingly given, though you have it nevertheless.”

“Thank you.”

“Yes, you’ve said that.”

“No, really, especially given the thought you don’t know whether I’d use this dagger on you.”

Derek considers this. “Will you?” he asks eventually.

“I don’t think so,” Stiles replies honestly.

“That’s what I thought,” he nods. “I’ll leave you to rest.”

Derek turns around and disappears into the hallway. Stiles thinks he falls asleep not long after because he couldn’t hear any noise coming from his room, but he finds himself unable to sleep for quite some time.

He could be doing something more productive, but instead he spends the rest of the night looking at the etching on the dagger.

* * *

The next morning, Stiles gets a message that one of the members of the King’s council has requested a meeting with him. It’d be foolish to deny, so he accepts her at noon by the garden.

“Councillor Lydia, to what do I owe this pleasure?”

Apparently, small talk isn’t her strong suit, because instead of easing Stiles into the news, she drops it on his head like a boulder.

“The people are unease, Your Highness, they’re not buying into this act.”

“I hope I am mistaken, Councillor, but are you calling my marriage an act?” Stiles replies, feigning annoyance with her choice of words.

The truth is, he expects this would happen. People are not always accepting of change, even if it is toward something better than what they have. He knows somewhere along the start there would be resistance.

“Some of the Mercian are branding you a prisoner of war, a term your people and the Armoor Council are not too fond of. You are quite loved in your country,” she explains.

Stiles considers her words. The citizens of Mercia are prouder than he judged them, then, if they dare call him a prisoner. He’s not sure how to change things from their perspective, it’s something he will need Derek’s knowledge for. What he can do, for now, is try to fix the problem from his end.

“Representatives of the Armoorian Council shall be invited to visit me here for a week, to make sure I am doing all right. How does that sound?”

Her expression doesn’t give anything away, but she vocalises her agreement. “I shall have the formal invitation written right away.”

Stiles nods. He hopes that it’s enough for now.

* * *

In addition to inviting his people to Mercia, he decides it would be better to take a more direct approach to the problem. Over dinner the next night, he brings to subject up with Derek.

“We should sleep on the same bed,” he says casually, sipping wine from his goblet.

Derek stops mid-chew, his fork and knife abandoned by his fingers.

“Excuse me?”

Stiles tries again, “I said—“

“No, I heard. Why?”

“Even a fool would know what we did not marry for love, but they still want us to keep up appearances, like we are not… trapped, in this,” he makes a gesture between the two of them.

Derek stays silent. He’s about to disagree. Stiles feels a little insulted that the prospect of sharing a bed with him bothers Derek so much to the point that he refuses to entertain the idea.

“The servants are speaking.”

“Which ones? Fire them,” Derek replies coldly.

Stiles glares at him darkly. They both know it’s not an unreasonable request, so why is Derek acting difficult?

“Be reasonable,” Stiles chastises him.

Derek leans back in his chair, carefully watching Stiles’ reaction as he asks him a question.

“You truly have no objection sharing the bed with a stranger?”

“My husband is no stranger.”

He gets a tired sigh for his reply, Derek running his finger through his hair in defeat.

“We start tomorrow,” he says finally.

“Tonight,” Stiles insists. The look of surprise spreads across Derek’s face, evidence that he was not expecting resistance to his decision. He must have thought that Stiles would be grateful he even agreed to it at all.

“As you wish.” Stiles pushes his chair backward and gets up to leave. Just as his fingers touch the doorknob, Derek asks him another question. “When is the delegation from Armoor going to arrive?”

“In two days time,” he replies before going out the door to take a bath.

He’s in desperate need to soak.

* * *

Stiles is hot. The heat of the morning sun is disagreeable to his skin, already turning red even underneath his cloak. He absentmindedly reaches up to touch his brooch— well, Derek’s brooch that has been pinned by the owner himself on him this morning, in an unfamiliar yet intimate gesture. In Mercia, servants dress the royal family members, a discipline not shared by Stiles’ people. It must have meant something to Derek when he dismissed the servants and helped Stiles put on the traditional Mercian clothes on his own, even going as far as giving his personal emblem as a finishing touch.

To Stiles, it had felt… raw.

He can see the banners of his men, his heart soaring at the welcomed sight. He squints a little, because he sees his brother among the riders, which at first he passes as his mind playing tricks on him. It simply can't be true, unless it is. The closer the party get, the more sure Stiles becomes.

Scott is in Mercia.

He wonders what his father would have to say to that, both of his sons and heirs in battleground together. Figuratively, of course. Stiles sure hopes so.

He grins as his brother approaches, ignoring Derek’s gaze on him.

“I didn’t know you were coming!” he exclaims, once Scott’s near enough to hear him.

Scott dismounts from his horse and sauntered towards him, all of his mannerisms casual.

“I intended it that way. Surprise,” he moves to embrace Stiles.

Derek watches them, quiet. He welcomes the rest of the party as warmly as he could manage while Stiles busies himself with Scott, asking all kinds of question about his own marriage and how things are going in Armoor. 

* * *

By the time they can finally sit down for the welcoming feast, the representatives from Armoor seems content enough with Stiles’ lifestyle in his new home. Stiles gave them a tour around the castle and described what his daily schedule would look like on any other day. Derek has to say, he made things far more interesting than they are. It came to his attention that Stiles hasn’t been sitting in many of his council meetings, only spending his time doing arbitrary things. He made a mental note to correct this error, as Stiles’ political insights could serve advantageous.

The Great Hall is buzzing with excitement, drunken laughter and the sounds of two culture mingling together. The soft pitter-patter of the rain outside drowned by chattering. Stiles is occupied talking, if not to his brother, then to his friends who came a long way to see him. His sister is holding her own kind of entertainment to Stiles' left, which is to say exchanging gossips with the ladies of her court.

Derek feels slightly ignored, so he opts to step out quietly to the portico. He holds out a hand over the railing, the part not covered by the roof, and lets the raindrops fall on his skin.

“Prince Derek,” someone greets to his right.

Derek doesn’t jump, but that is not to say he isn’t surprised.

“Prince Scott.”

Scott leans back against the railing, eyes directed at the opening between the portico and the hall. He doesn’t seem to mind that water is falling directly at him, his shirt already wet from it.

“How are you doing?” he asks, then turns to Derek. Derek’s expression betrays him. “You seemed surprised that I asked.”

“Full disclosure, no one has asked me how I’m doing in two years,” he huffs.

It’s true. No one asked him whether he wanted to lead an army. No one asked him whether he wanted to go to war for a small patch of land that held no significance to him. No one asked him whether he wanted to marry someone not of his choosing. If nobody wants his opinion and instead just expects him to do certain things, it’s not that big of a shock that no one wants to know how he’s doing. Nobody asks a puppet such questions.

Scott doesn’t acknowledge his statement, but he doesn’t avert his eyes from Derek’s.

“My brother is making great sacrifices by being here.”

Derek straightens his back, preparing for the talk. “So I’ve heard.”

Scott’s reply is far from what he had expected.

“But then again, so are you.”

The future king of Armoor seems to do a lot of thinking about other people’s wellbeing.

“I’m not doing much,” Derek shrugs nonchalantly.

Scott laughs. Not sarcastic or mocking, but genuine amusement. “Besides devoting your whole life to some prince from a country you just finished going to war with, with no possibility of getting out of the arrangement?” he tilts his head to the left.

Derek thinks he looks like a puppy. He refrains from voicing this thought out loud.

“Well, when you put it like that— I haven’t even decided if I like him yet. I might get rid of him soon.”

“I’d be happy to take him from your hands,” Scott grins, clapping Derek on his back like they’re old friends. “He’s a handful isn’t he?” Scott asks him, the grin still on his face.

Derek’s glad he’s never met him on the field, or only one of them would be standing here today. He considers the question carefully before answering.

“Persistent.”

“Quite a nice word you’re using to describe him.”

There are quite many words Derek can think of to describe him, but for now he thinks persistent works just fine.

“He’s my husband, after all.”

“Yes, how could I forget?” Scott says, mostly to himself than to Derek. His face is suddenly serious, as if he’s in deep thoughts over the matter.

“You don’t accept our marriage.”

Derek remarks this sentiment cautiously, not wanting to elicit a hostile response from Scott.

“I am not as big a fool to acknowledge that. I support your marriage. I just wish it doesn’t come at the cost of my little brother’s happiness. As the older sibling, I have a duty to ensure he has everything he needs in life and I can’t do that from the other side of the border.”

Derek understands where he’s coming from, how he can see things that way. He tells Scott as much, with as much sincerity as he can convey in his voice.

“Do you?”

Derek nods. “How did you think I felt when my understanding was you were to propose to my little sister? She’s not even of age, but I knew the Council would have me accept you.”

“You took the burden off of her,” Scott looks solemn under the moonlight, even as the night breeze messes with his hair and makes him look five years younger. “I couldn’t do the same for Stiles.”

It’s Derek’s turn to put a hand on Scott’s shoulder, hoping to reassure him.

“I will treat him well.”

The gesture and the words seem to please Scott enough, because he reverts back to his easygoing nature instantly.

“Mind if I give you pointers, then?”

Derek sighs inwardly, he should have seen this coming. Persistence runs in the family, it turns out.

“Oh, I don’t think I can stop you,” he replies politely.

Watching the two of them interact from his seat, Stiles doesn’t know whether to be glad or jealous that Scott and Derek are getting along well. His brother is talking animatedly out on the portico and Derek, well, Derek’s actually paying attention to him.

* * *

The visit comes to its conclusion just this morning, and Stiles finds himself unable to sleep after dinner. It only just hits him that he doesn’t know when he’s going to see Scott again, or even if Derek would allow him to visit Armoor for a change.

He tosses and turns in bed for what seems like an eternity, willing himself to sleep without any success. He's about to get up and go find some food when he hears whimpering coming from the other side of the bed.

He turns around and sees Derek shaking.

“Derek?” he calls out attentively.

Derek doesn't seem to hear him. He's sweating through his shirt, Stiles can tell. His face scrunched up as if in pain doesn't help convince Stiles to let him be, either. So he reaches out a hand carefully toward him and tapping him gently on the shoulder.

"Derek," he calls again.

Derek jolts awake this time, sitting upright in record time, his hands still fisting the sheets. His eyes are bloodshot, his body held in rigid lines. He whips his head around to stare at Stiles, hard, like he's not expecting him to be there.

“Hey, it’s okay,” he runs his hand up and down Derek's arm. “You had a nightmare, that’s it. That’s all it was, just a dream."

Scott gets nightmare too after his first battle. Stiles had to talk to him for hours on one particularly bad day just to calm him down.

“Please,” Derek whispers in return, averting his eyes away from Stiles.

“What?”

Derek wrenches himself away, not roughly but enough to make his intention clear. To get away. “Please, don’t touch me. Just— hands off. Please.”

Stiles takes his hand back, holding it up in the air between them.

“Okay,” he says softly.

Derek massages his forehead, fighting off the throbbing pain that feels like a sledgehammer being knocked against his skull.

“I’m going out. I need fresh air.”

Stiles watches him carefully, a little part of him waiting for an invitation that never came. “To the balcony?”

Derek shakes his head. “No. Out.”

“Wear your robe, at least. The night air, it’s—“ Stiles tries to say, but Derek’s already gone.

* * *

Stiles got tired of waiting for Derek to come back that he finally fell asleep on Derek’s side of the bed. When he finally wakes the next morning, the sun is already high on the sky and Derek’s sitting by the dining table in their room, waiting.

“Good morning.”

He says this casually, not a single syllable hint toward what happened last night. Stiles rubs his eyes, still exhausted. He makes his way from the bed and stands beside Derek, unsure whether he should ask how he’s feeling or if he needs anything.

After a thought, Stiles decides to start with a, “Did you sleep at all?”

Derek motions to the chair opposite him instead of answering his question.

“Have a seat and break your fast with me.”

“What are we—“ Stiles stops short at the sight of the dish in front of him. “How did you know?” he inquires, sitting down.

It must have been Scott who told Derek exactly how Stiles likes his eggs. Soft-boiled. Pretentious, he knows, but he couldn’t help his taste. All the eggs in Mercia were, before today, presented in only one way: omelette-style. He guessed it’s the way Derek preferred it, quick and easy.

“I…” Derek starts, timid.

Stiles encourages him. “Yes?”

Derek takes a deep breath, and then, “I want you to feel like this is home. Not instantly, of course, but I hope little by little Mercia will no longer feel foreign for you.”

It’s not unexpected to hear the words, though the way Derek delivers them makes the gesture seem more just imperative courtesy.

“I appreciate that.”

“After you,” Derek makes an indication with his hand.

“No, no, you can go first.”

The Mercian stares at Stiles, then looks down at his plate, and after a moment, back at Stiles. His expression is hopeless and Stiles can’t help but think it’s slightly adorable. Not that he will ever voice that thought out loud.

“I actually don’t know how to eat this,” Derek admits.

“Tap the top of the egg with your teaspoon to crack it,” Stiles instructs, then when Derek basically punched the egg, “Not that hard! It’s not target practice. Here, let me.”

He ends up opening not one but two eggs for Derek to eat, a little sense of satisfaction creeping at the back of his mind.

While they’re eating, Derek apparently decides he wants to make conversation, which Stiles has no choice but to entertain as the alternative is sitting in uncomfortable silence for the rest of their meal.

“You and Scott are not of the same mother.”

“That is true,” Stiles nods. Derek leans forward, closer to him. “His mother died giving birth to him and our father found solace in one of the ladies from her court, who was my mother.”

“She has passed, too?”

“Yes. We were allowed a good ten years with her before the fever claimed her from us.”

He takes this information in and finally comes around to the actual question, after the prologue that Stiles can see right through.

“Is there any rivalry between you and Scott?”

“There is a rivalry to a certain extent, as there usually is between brothers, but it has always been healthy competition with only good intentions,” Stiles answers him. “To better ourselves.”

Derek nods absently.

“Why did you ask?”

“Bastards are allowed to rule in this country and I am quite sure I have many brothers. Maybe even older ones.”

Now, this comes off as a surprise to Stiles. He can’t comprehend what Derek’s trying to say. He takes a gulp of the fresh juice while gathering his response carefully, since it appears to be a rather sensitive matter to Derek.

“So… you are not actually the heir to the throne?”

Derek leans back, crosses his arms over his chest. Defensive.

“My father has to legitimise them first before they can even be taken into the castle and presented before the Council, though he is yet to do so until today.”

“Why?” Stiles wonders aloud.

Derek doesn’t answer him though Stiles is sure that he heard the question. Instead he says, “The only thing my standing between my half-brothers and the throne of Mercia is me. Any rivalry between us is surely that filled with animosity.”

There’s a relevant subtopic of this matter that Stiles has been meaning to ask him, but only now has the opportunity to do so. So he does.

“What about yourself? Have you had any child?”

“No,” Derek replies curtly.

Stiles nods in comprehension before continuing, “None that you know of?”

“No,” Derek says again, with more emphasis this time. “No child.”

“You’re certain.”

“Yes.”

Stiles stops eating completely, putting down his spoon.

“How? You’re not a virgin. I have heard the stories of your routine.”

This is not a secret, now, nor has it ever been, so it allows Stiles some degree of freedom to talk about it openly. It’s probable that Derek intended it to be public knowledge so he can control the flow of the narrative, preventing it from creeping on him from the shadows and damaging his reputation. The story is, after each and every battle he’s won, Derek takes whoever is willing into his tent to spend the night with him. The people who deem themselves good enough to take part in his performance always leave the next morning with nothing high praises for their crown prince.

There’s a tug on the corner of Derek’s mouth. A little hint of pride, perhaps, that words of his acts reach even Stiles. Stiles fights the urge to roll his eyes.

“I didn’t say I was, but I am never without protection. Even with the men.”

“They don’t work all the time,” Stiles points out.

“True, but it is still highly unlikely. I don’t,” he pauses for a second, seemingly to choose his upcoming diction carefully, “release myself inside anyone. I have control. Even in rare cases when I do, it’s the wrong part of their anatomy.”

Stiles is getting more and more images of Derek performing lewd acts branded into his mind by each passing second. He doesn’t allow the conversation to continue, just simply nodding at Derek’s explanation before returning his attention back to the rest of the cuisine. 

* * *

Stiles spends his afternoon in bliss, just reading in the middle of the maze. He’s learned the pattern by now, not having to call out for a servant to lead him out of the garden anymore. Before long, the sun is setting low on the horizon, which means he has to return inside. There’s no point in staying out if there’s not enough light to continue his reading anyway.

He walks slowly, enjoying the soft breeze that blows his hair playfully in front of his face. Two servants curtsy as they see him approaching the castle, their bows significantly lower than when Stiles first came. The castle walls don’t feel like home yet, but they certainly no longer feel like a prison.

When he reaches his room, the doors are slightly ajar and Stiles hears soft murmurs coming from inside. He can see Derek pacing back and forth from the opening of the door, three of his council members standing across him.

Derek stops.

“Give them food from our storage.”

One of the two councilmen—Stiles thinks his name is Arthur—takes a step forward.

“Your Highness, it is important that we—“

He doesn’t get a chance to finish his sentence because Derek glares at him and reiterates his words with emphasis.

“Give. Them. Food. The people have suffered enough of late and the reason they’re paying taxes is so that they can get aid from us when they need it. Now they need it and you wish to have me deny them?”

The councilman bows, apparently he knows a direct order when it is given.

“Yes, my prince,” he says after a beat.

Stiles knows the meeting isn’t over when the councilman hands Derek a parchment instead of excusing himself and since he doesn’t feel right witnessing something he wasn’t invited to, he walks away from the room carefully.

* * *

He returns only when the sun’s completely gone. Derek is waiting for him at the dining table, already changed into his sleeping attire.

He looks up as Stiles comes in and closes the door behind him.

“Where were you?”

“Oh, riding. You were occupied with Council meetings, I thought you’d finished late.”

Derek hums in reply. “Where to?”

“Along the coastline,” Stiles shrugs off his jacket and points a finger in the direction of the beach. “It’s quite beautiful, I caught the sunset. Did you have dinner?”

Stiles turns around to look at him and gets the answer to his question immediately. The dining table still has the trays of food on top of them, untouched. Derek leans back in his chair, clasps his hand together and let them rest on his lap.

“I waited for you.”

Stiles couldn’t help but smile at his sincereness, and Derek actually returns it.

“I see. Let’s dine, then,” he says, pulling a chair and settling down next to Derek.

That’s another first. They usually sit across from each other, on opposite end of the long table. Tonight, Stiles doesn’t care for distance. Derek doesn’t protest, either, instead he scoops a considerable amount of buttered potato and puts them on Stiles’ plate. He’s fixing Stiles a plate— something a woman does for her husband, or in this particular example, a man does for his husband.

“Were you worried?” Stiles inquiries. “I apologise. I left you a message.”

Derek pours water into a cup before pushing it in Stiles’ direction. “Where?”

“I told Isaac.”

Stiles met Isaac on his way out to the stables and told him he’s going riding, to which Isaac’s only reply was a half-hearted grin and a nod. Looking back, the captain might have been slightly drunk.

“Tonight is his weekly visit to a brothel, any messages you have for me would have to wait until the morrow,” Derek answers nonchalantly while cutting his fish.

That explains it. Stiles’ curiosity is peaked, though. He’s learned enough about the culture and customs of Mercia to know that it’s not unusual for the prince to be fooling around before his ascension.

“Why didn’t you follow him?”

Derek’s eyebrows scrunched. “Why would I follow the Captain of my Prince’s Guard? It is his night off, justly earned.”

Stiles doesn’t know if Derek doesn’t understand the connotation in his question or if he’s avoiding the subject altogether. For all the rumors he’s heard about the prince, no indications have been given from the way Derek carries himself that he is who he’s been said to be.

Stiles decides to elaborate.

“I mean, go with him.”

His elaboration doesn’t seem to help at all, because Derek’s sporting a confused puppy look that Stiles suspects he learned from Scott.

“What do you mean, go with him?”

“Well, I wouldn’t mind,” Stiles shrugs.

When Derek puts down his fork and knife before giving a response, Stiles’ heart skips a beat. If he has offended Derek even just a little, it would mean pedaling backward on the relationship they’ve worked so hard for.

“A crown prince who is married to an heir presumptive of another kingdom shouldn’t be spotted drinking in such place with his captain,” he says in all seriousness, although there’s a discreet smile dancing on his face. It gives Stiles the courage to says what comes next.

“If you don’t want to be spotted in public, you can always bring them here.”

“Here?”

“Yes, that is the point of the separate chambers, right? So the husband may invite someone else to share his bed when he wishes it.”

“Or the wife,” Derek points out.

“Or the wife, then.”

Derek considers this for a split second but then decides against the proposition. “Forget it, I am not going to bring anyone else here. People are going to talk.”

It’s Stiles’ turn to put down his utensils and give Derek a serious look that hopefully will convey just how acceptable the situation is for him should Derek choose it.

“You and I both know your people don’t care about that.”

“Your people do,” Derek replies without missing a beat.

“And so? We are in Mercia, not Armoor.”

Derek shakes his head. “I will not disrespect you.”

He’s more stubborn that Stiles expected him to be, he’ll give him that.

“I will not feel disrespected. If you want to go and… release what needs to be released, that is entirely your business. I do not expect you to be celibate.”

Even when what he’s saying is true, somehow the words feel heavier as they’re being pronounced compared to when they were still in Stiles’ thoughts.

“What about you?” Derek asks in return.

“What about me?”

“Are you going to be celibate?”

“You’re telling me to go to a brothel?”

“Of course not,” Derek clears his throat before continuing, “I’d like to think that I’m able to provide for my spouse.”

“Meaning?”

“Meaning, if you want to fuck someone, it might as well be me, and if you want to be fucked, it might as well be by me. Though if you prefer women, then I must admit I can not give you such pleasure, so you may seek it somewhere else.”

To say that his words surprise Stiles is an understatement. They throw Stiles completely off-balance. Up to this point, Derek’s always been polite, restrained, _proper._ Now, maybe, finally, he’s letting Stiles catch a glimpse of his true colours. His expression must have betrayed him it elicits a small laugh from Derek.

“What? Did you not think I could speak this way?”

“You’d really sleep with me?” Stiles hears himself reply, an out-of-body experience.

“If you wish it, yes,” Derek nods, then adds more earnestly, “Otherwise I wouldn’t lay a hand on you.”

“Even if we don’t love each other?”

It sounds childish to even bring love up in this conversation seeing as they are two adults stuck in a political marriage, but Derek doesn't point out Stiles' naiveté.

“Would I be in love with someone from the brothel?”

“Point taken.”

Derek resumes cutting his fish and doesn’t say anything else for the rest of the night.

* * *

Feeling that their relationship has developed a great deal since he first arrived in Mercia, Stiles gathers the courage to ask the question that’s been nagging at the back of his mind since the day Scott left for Armoor.

Stiles takes the opportunity when they’re in their shared chambers together, Derek sharpening his dagger on a whetstone and himself undoing all the laces on his royal shirt to casually drop the bomb on his husband.

“What are your nightmares about?”

Derek’s expression closes off in an instant, he stops dead in his movement. He lifts his eyes to find Stiles’.

“I beg your pardon?” he asks coldly.

“Your nightmares,” Stiles repeats, unyielding. “What are they about?”

Derek stares at him, emotionless. His expression is controlled. Then, just like that, he returns his attention to the dagger in his hand. “We are not to speak of this.”

Stiles knew he would be met with hostility because no one likes to share their vulnerability with other people, but Derek doesn’t not acknowledge the existence of his nightmares or its cause altogether. He just doesn’t want to share it with Stiles.

“We spoke freely about fucking, yet we’re not touching this subject with a ten-feet pole?”

“We are not to speak of this,” Derek emphasises, not looking up at Stiles as he replies.

Stiles, finally free from all the knots, throws his shirt across the room for effect. Derek doesn’t seem particularly concerned with the attitude Stiles is giving him.

“I want to know. I deserve to know. I am your husband, after all,” Stiles demands.

The reply comes quickly, a subtle but precise blow, “Not by choice.”

It stuns Stiles more than anything else.

“I see. This is how it is.”

Derek refuses to acknowledge him, again. Stiles sleeps in the secondary bedroom that night.

* * *

It’s been a quiet week for Derek since Stiles decides not to talk to him unless it’s absolutely necessary. He‘s unsure of how to handle the situation, he knows the only way to appease Stiles would be to tell him the truth, and that’s out of the question.

Derek doesn’t think he’s ready to share his secrets just yet.

He’s shaken out of his reverie by the arrival of his older sister. He made time out of council meetings to greet Laura at the gates of the castle to avoid being maimed by her later. He won’t tell her this, but he’s hoping that she could help him resolve the problem with Stiles.

“Laura!” he calls out as she steps out of her carriage.

“Brother.”

He envelops her with his arms. “It is so good to see you.”

“Walk with me,” Laura says. Derek offers his arm, which she takes, and they make their way inside. “How is married life?”

“You should have told me it would be this annoying,” he comments.

Laura observes him for a moment, then decides that he’s not that genuinely bothered after all. Nothing for her to be concerned of, anyway.

“Well, all arranged marriages are to an extent, an annoyance,” she replies.

Derek smiles at her effort to cheer him up. It’s only fair to her that he offers her the truth, so he does. “He is not as bad as I’d imagined.”

“What did you imagine?”

“A snake, plotting schemes to take down our country from underneath my sheets,” he admits.

“And you think he is not— a snake?”

Derek knows the answer comes from his heart. “No.”

“So sure?” Laura seems to notice the lack of hesitation on his part, too.

“I believe so,” he nods. “If my belief kills me, then I might not have the instincts needed for kingship, anyway.”

Laura pats his arm, the one that’s interlinked with her own. “There is not a single fiber of your being that is not meant to rule.”

“So sure?” Derek echoes.

“I believe so.”

“I have missed you,” he tells her.

“So have I. No one in Wessex knows me well enough to bring me wine for breakfast,” Derek chuckles at this for he knows that Laura can outdrink even their father’s generals without getting even slightly tipsy, “not that I can drink anything for the next seven months.”

“Why—“ then he stops as the meaning of her words sink in. “Oh. Congratulations?” He means to sound excited, but the confusion he's feeling is difficult to mask.

“It is what I came all the way here to tell you.”

“Cora is going to kill you for telling me before her.”

Laura smiles sheepishly. Derek's eyes widen in understanding and in retaliation, he tries to wriggle his arm away from her, to no avail. Laura’s told Cora already, of course.

“She knows? For how long? How could you keep something like this from me?”

Laura sighs dramatically, dragging Derek by the arm to keep walking. “You have a kingdom to run. Our sister continuously has her tutors running in circles.”

He supposes that there are some truths to her point of view. He’s so behind in reading letters from the delegations and ambassadors, that he can’t guarantee he would have read hers if she ever sent him one. It might just get buried among all the others. This way of delivering the news is more effective and likely to reach Derek’s brain faster than any other.

He doesn’t know how he feels about the whole thing given the circumstance of her marriage. He knows that he’s happy for her as long as she’s happy, though. Derek carefully navigates their conversation toward another topic.

"Will you need silk to wrap the books you're bringing to Wessex? I could send someone to fetch them from the merchant.”

Instead of answering his question, Laura tells him, ”I heard a story once.”

Her reply baffles Derek. Half of the time, he doesn’t know where his sister’s going with her ambiguous answers. ”About what?"

"About a prince from Armoor with a great interest in books, old and new, of any subjects. He buried himself in them as a child and emerged out as an excellent strategist when he came of age,” she stares at him.

He understands instantly what she means by that.

“You’re a gift,” he tells her.

She truly is. Derek doesn’t even have to confide in her about what happened and she already provides him with an alternative solution to get back on Stiles’ good side.

* * *

Derek barges into the room and finds Stiles sitting on his chair. He doesn’t particularly mind it.

"Are you busy?” he asks him.

Stiles’ eyebrows quirk up and he holds the book he’s reading up from his lap for Derek to see. "Just reading,” he points out.

"Perfect timing," Derek grins. "Come with me.”

"Where are we going? I'm not one to exercise before I eat,” Stiles says even as he’s standing up.

"You'll see." Derek holds out a hand. Stiles stares at him, and them at his hand, before taking it tentatively.

Derek leads him through the castle. He has to remind himself to contain his excitement and walk his normal pace to prevent giving any clues away to Stiles. When they finally find themselves in front of the room, he releases Stiles’ hand and gesture for him to open the door.

Stiles does, slowly. "What is this?” he wonders aloud as soon as he sees the inside of the room.

“Laura loves books,” Derek gestures at the row of shelves filling the room. “I’ve come to learn that it is the similarity between the two of you. This was her private space, where she went to when she is running away from my mother.”

Stiles trails the spines of the books on the front row with his fingertips. “She read all of this?”

“Probably not all, but most of it, I believe.”

“This is amazing,” Stiles tells him sincerely.

Derek’s never seen him like this before, totally comfortable in his space. Somehow it makes him feel… glad? Happy? It’s hard to describe.

“It is yours, now.”

Stiles doesn’t believe it. “Mine?”

“Yes, of course,” Derek nods. “You will need to wear the gloves when handling some of the older issues from the glass cupboard there,” he points, “but everything else is for you to do as you like.”

Stiles moves toward him and puts a hand on Derek’s shoulder, a gesture that is clearly unexpected by him as he carefully follows Stiles’ movement with his eyes. Stiles uses his hand to push his body up, stretches himself to stand on his toes and plants a soft kiss on Derek’s cheek.

Derek’s face slowly turns a beautiful shade of pink.

“Thank you,” Stiles says, a graceful smile on his face.

“Yes,” succinct. Derek couldn’t think of anything else to say because his loud heartbeat overtakes even the sound of his mind.

* * *

“Princess Laura,” Stiles greets as he sees her just outside the Great Hall. Her dress hugs her figure perfectly, the deep blue colour help to pop her eyes. “Your reputation precedes you, though they definitely undersell your beauty.”

She eyes him up and down. “You have quite a mouth on you.”

It’s like hearing something that’s not supposed to be said out loud. Stiles’s not completely sure how to reply, so he seeks clarification, afraid that he might have misheard.

“Pardon?”

To her credit, the princess doesn’t double down on her words. “I said: you have quite a mouth on you.”

“You are no doubt Derek’s sister,” Stiles laughs.

“You call him Derek?”

“What else am I supposed to call my husband?”

She shrugs. “I would think you need to be reminded to call him Derek instead of Diederik.”

“It is more intimate, the nickname,” he comments.

“Reserved for family and friends,” she nods in agreement with him, but there’s something about her tone that serves a warning.

Stiles tries to remind her gently, “I am family.”

“Of course,” she smiles, but her eyes say, _for now_.

“I have no intention of hurting him, if that worries you.”

“If you have such plans, then certainly I am not the one who should be worried,” she retorts.

“I know you don’t trust me and I don’t expect you to, but he’s proven to be more than what I bargained for. He—“ Stiles pauses, looking for words that will fit to describe Derek, “he’s a great man. I have grown to understand that. Still, it is only fitting that you are mistrusting of me, but for what my words are worth… I am not an enemy.”

Laura raises a hand to rest on his shoulder and gives him a squeeze. The gesture seems friendly to anyone paying attention to them, but when she leans in close to whisper in his ear, her words are as sharp as the nails digging into Stiles’ flesh.

“You may not be an enemy, but are you a friend? In my opinion, something in between the two is far more dangerous.”

* * *

Derek is on his way to retire to the sanctuary that is his chamber after a long, long day of dealing with delegations from Wessex. He doesn’t quite understand why he needs to play nice with the lords and ladies while the future of their two countries are now sealed in flesh and blood. Laura’s having a future prince or princess inside her. Derek’s going to be an uncle. The news might be the only good thing that comes out of his day.

He’s almost at door, just one last turn of the hallway, when he hears Stiles speaking with a couple of ambassadors from Wessex. They are standing right outside of his and Stiles’ chambers and there is no way of going pass them without being noticed. Derek is not in the mood to entertain more necessary diplomacy, so he hides in plain sight, behind a pillar.

He starts listening then.

“Has he consummated the marriage?” it’s the woman speaking.

Derek feels the heat rising to his cheeks. Was it even appropriate to pose such questions about a prince?

Apparently, Stiles has similar thoughts on the matter, because his reply comes with barbs attached to it. “What business is it of yours?”

“We are merely curious. They tell stories about him, you see,” says the man.

“I don’t see,” Stiles’ voice is clear in showing his indignation.

“They say he is only aroused after a battle. His bloodlust, that is the fuel. Maybe he has to hurt you a little before he can get it up?”

Derek almost loses his footing. The audacity. He thinks about making his presence known, that would effectively shut those people up and even have them running in embarrassment. He turns on his heel, ready to make his move.

Stiles’ words cut through the air before he has the chance.

“I’d watch my tongue if I were you. I’d cut it out myself, but then I would have to explain to Derek why I have chosen to do so and you might just lose more than a tongue. To imply that he is anything but a gentle lover is not only a lie, but it is also treachery.”

From where he’s standing, Derek can physically feel the cold demeanour radiating from Stiles’ entire being. He has to keep himself from laughing when he imagines the looks on the ambassadors’ faces as they most certainly don’t expect such a treatment from Stiles.

“Now leave before I bother remembering your names,” Stiles barks at them before shutting the door loudly in front of their faces.

Derek smiles so wide his whole face aches the rest of the night.

* * *

Laura’s visit comes to an end and the world begins to return to its axis again. No huge feasts, no pestering foreigners, fewer meetings about policies.

They are in bed that night, their bed, together. Derek’s reading letters from his ambassadors in other countries, Stiles also reading, but instead of letters, he’s invested in a book from his newly-found library.

Stiles has his tongue sticking out, face scrunched up in concentration. Something overcomes Derek at the sight.

“What did you do today?” Derek prompts.

Stiles absentmindedly answers him, “Nothing much. I’ve been reading, a lot. The collection in the library is truly exceptional. Oh, I played chess with your sister, too.”

“You lost?”

He glances at Derek, his eyes averted from the book for a second, but return to it just as quickly. “One game each, actually. Thanks for having confidence in me.”

This stops Derek, because that means Stiles’ beat Cora at chess. Which is not possible.

“Did you really win a game against her?” he asks seriously, putting the letters aside on the bedside table.

“Yes…” Stiles drawls out.

“Wow,” he says, amazed.

This catches Stiles’ attention. “What?”

“No one wins against her. We bring in masters from other countries just to improve her game, but after some time we all believe she peaked.”

Stiles considers Derek’s words before he noting his own observation, “She’s definitely one of the best opponents I’ve ever had.”

“I think she let you win,” Derek teases him. He knows it’s not true, though. Cora doesn’t show anybody the slightest bit of mercy when it comes to playing games. Derek should know, the competitiveness run in the family and he’s been subject to her utter ruthlessness on more than one occasion.

“Are you truly that disbelieving of my skills?” Stiles throws him an offended look. “I’ll play you one game, right now.”

Derek laughs and holds his hands up in the air. “Yield, I yield.”

Stiles shakes his head and returns to reading. Derek watches him for a moment, and then, “My nightmares,” he starts, completely unprompted.

Stiles closes his book immediately, giving Derek his full attention.

“Yes?” he asks softly.

Derek takes a deep breath as he tries to shut down the little voice inside of him that tells him he’s going to regret ever doing this.

“They are about the war.”

“What do you see when you dream?”

Derek stands up, his mind telling him he needs to be ready to escape if the situation calls for it. He paces around the bed as he answers Stiles’ question, although he’s mostly talking to himself than to the younger man.

“Death. Deaths, to be exact. The ones I caused. There’s this— this one, I can’t get it out of my head. When we fought, I knocked his helmet off and he… he was young. Too young. I was surprised. He ran me through with his sword before I—“ Derek’s hand touches the scar on his lower stomach and he winces, as if he could still feel the pain.

Stiles’ eyes are warm, not a single judgment passed between them as he looks right at Derek.

“Why are you telling me now?”

“I had spoken out of turn, when you asked me about it,” Derek fiddles with the hem of his shirt. “This arrangement might not be my choice, or yours, but it is the one good thing that’s holding our kingdoms together, preventing more innocent lives from— anyway, you didn’t deserve my attitude. I am sorry.”

“Forgiven,” Stiles says lightly before once again returning to his book.

“Truly?”

He hums. “I am not the sort of man who makes the future king of Mercia beg.”

“Thank you.”

Stiles looks at him again.

“What for?”

“You know what. I don’t have the same ways with words that you do,” Derek shrugs.

“All right,” Stiles replies, conceding. A small smile appears on the corner of his mouth.

The moment passed and Derek can feel himself relaxing. He sits back down on the bed.

“Why do you always stay at the edge of the bed?” Derek asks before he can refrain himself. Apparently his mouth has a mind of its own tonight, because Derek definitely does not have any control whatsoever over it. “I have no desire to kill you. Not anymore,” he adds quickly.

“It’s— I— don’t know what you are comfortable with. Sharing your bed.”

“Our bed,” Derek corrects him.

Stiles nods. “Yes.”

“I am not uncomfortable if you come closer, it will give me a peace of mind knowing I would not kick you off the bed in my sleep.”

“Okay,” he concurs, moving his pillow closer to Derek’s and settling in there. He continues reading, then after a moment, gives a small whisper in Derek’s direction, “Don’t get any ideas.”

Derek stifles his laugh. “I told you, only if you wish. Otherwise, never.”

* * *

Weeks fly by without any incidents and Stiles begins to think that this life could be more than he initially expects it to be. His interactions with Derek are increasingly more natural with each passing day, their conversations over meals no longer limited to a few strained words. If Stiles happens to find himself waking up in Derek’s arms a few times, that’s nobody’s business.

Fate is a funny thing. As soon as Stiles’ feels like he’s ready to apply finishing touches to his personal bubble, fate bursts it by hitting him with the all the might of reality.

He wakes one day reaching out to his left, where on a normal day Derek would still be sleeping soundly. Instead of finding warmth, the other side of the bed is empty and cold. He opens his eyes and blinks once, and then twice, before sitting up.

Derek’s already awake, which should have given him a clue that something is off. He sits by the desk, the chair turned in the direction the balcony. Derek must have heard him rouse because he speaks without turning around to face Stiles.

“The King is dead,” he announces.

Stiles jolts.

“Derek?” he gets up from the bed and makes his way to him, not even bothering to put on a robe.

Stiles stands in front of Derek, though the prince, strike that, the king, is doing is best to avoid his eyes. “He passed peacefully in his sleep, last night. They didn't notice until they tried to wake him up this morning. The physician said it was painless.”

“I’m—“ Stiles reaches out to him, but Derek gets up and starts pacing around the room.

“We need to arrange the viewing, then the ceremony and burial. Ascension, ascension afterward. Unless my mother wants to keep her regency—“

“Derek, stop,” he calls out. Derek stops and looks over at him. Stiles walks to the bed before giving Derek a command, probably the last one he’ll ever be allowed to give him because no one tells a King what to do. “Come here.”

Surprisingly, Derek obliges. He slowly walks towards Stiles and when he’s right in front of him, Stiles put both hands on his shoulders and forces him to sit on the bed. Stiles stands between his legs, towering over him for the first time.

“Cry,” he tells him.

Derek looks up at him, incredulous. He must think Stiles’s messing with him, although he isn’t.

“What?” he asks.

Stiles cups Derek’s face with his hands. “You’ve lost a parent, now cry. Grief properly, as there might not be time for it later.”

“He was a horrible, horrible man—“ Derek shakes his head, fighting off the emotions that are overwhelming him. “I wouldn’t cry for such a person.”

Stiles caresses his cheeks before answering quietly, “He was your father.”

“Even worse,” Derek replies, his voice breaking.

“Hey,” Stiles says in a whisper, his right hand moves to wipe away the wetness on his husband’s cheek, “it’s all right.”

Derek buries his face in the crook of Stiles’ neck and cries.

* * *

They didn’t talk about the moment they shared that morning, but there’s a significant shift in their dynamic. The first three days went by in a blink of an eye, Derek’s busied with all the necessary arrangements for his father’s funeral and his own ascension, as well as all the visitors from all over the country coming by the castle to express their condolences in person to the future king.

Stiles returns from his meeting with Councillor Lydia to find Derek half-buried in parchments and books on tradition guidelines. His concentration means he doesn’t even notice Stiles coming into their room.

“Have you had dinner?”

Derek gives him a distracted answer. “I will eat after I finish this preparation.”

“Put it aside and eat first,” Stiles comments.

“Just a moment.”

“Derek,” he says, again, a heavier tone than the previous one he used.

“You are getting pushy,” Derek retaliates.

Stiles realises he is, but only because he cares. This new awareness of his own feelings stops him from answering immediately and Derek notices the silence that hangs in the air.

“What? Nothing to say?”

“I care for you,” he tells Derek as much.

Derek stares at him. Stiles holds his gaze, not backing away from the intensity. “We are alone in our private chambers, you are free to speak the truth in here,” Derek says.

The reply itself isn’t necessarily welcoming or encouraging of the feelings Stiles is trying to convey, but the affectionate expression on Derek’s face as he says the words definitely is.

“Very well,” Stiles sits down at the dining table and clasps his hand in front of his chest. “You can stop and eat, now, or I will shove the chicken down your throat, bone and all.”

Derek gives him a look that says, “Really?” but stops what he’s doing and joins Stiles for dinner anyway.

Stiles counts that as a win.

* * *

The funeral of a late king and the ascension of his successor are often a two-in-one deal and this time it was no different. Derek buried his father and along with him any lingering sense of childhood he still had left in his bloodstream. His right hand found its resting place on Stiles’ wrist and didn’t leave until his name is called by the officiant of the ceremony. It was Councillor Lydia.

He’s read his duties and was asked to swear that he would serve his country and put Mercia’s best interest in all his actions. Derek proceeded to read his vows without a hitch. The Queen Regent placed the golden crown atop her only son’s head with pride in her eyes. She got a reverent kiss on the cheek from him in return and the gesture warmed Stiles’ heart to the core. Everything was at its intended place, the procession was going so smoothly and according to plan. Stiles let his guard down and told himself that nothing was to ruin the day.

Except he was wrong. He was dead wrong.

The royal party went out from the castle afterward to travel a path through the city. A small parade. It was meant to allow the common folk a sight of their newly minted King. To give them cause not to mourn, but to celebrate.

They were almost back inside the castle’s impregnable walls when the commotion broke out. People were pushing each other out of the way in a desperate attempt to get one last glimpse of Derek before he vanished into an illusion they can only hear of or talk about.

Then the arrows rained from the sky.

Stiles didn’t know they were arrows then, he didn’t know where they were coming from.

He heard Isaac yelled, “Cover the king!”

Stiles’ body willed itself to moved into position across Derek’s in order to hide him from view, but he was too slow. He looked down, and suddenly it was too late.

Derek had done the exact same thing to him and taken an arrow to the shoulder for his action.

Stiles’ eyes widened as he shared a look with Derek, who had one hand holding the shaft of the arrow as if he was trying to stop it with his hand. Then Derek fell against Stiles, his body limp.

It felt like the entire event up to that point had been muted and the first thing Stiles could hear in what felt like an eternity was himself shouting, “Derek!” and then “Isaac! He’s shot!” before looping his hand under Derek’s arms and pulling him through the doors of the castle.

“Physician, now!” he had ordered to a young soldier kneeling next to him. The young man had discarded his shield and sword before running with all his might to obey the command.

He focused on Derek then, ripped a large section from his shirt to press on his wound.

“It’s okay, it’s okay. I got you,” he spoke to him softly, Derek’s head positioned in his lap.

Derek looked up at him with his green eyes, lifted a trembling hand to tuck a particularly stubborn lock of Stiles’ hair behind his ear. He managed to breathe out a final “I’m glad you’re not hurt,” before falling into unconsciousness.

Isaac had to physically restrain Stiles from going outside to find whoever knocked that arrow loose.

* * *

There is dried blood underneath Stiles’ fingernails, even more streaks of it on Stiles’ cheek and jaw. He’s only wearing half a shirt, having torn out a chunk of it earlier to put pressure on the point where blood was gushing out of Derek. He looks the definition of ridiculous, yet he couldn’t find it in himself to care.

Isaac would not let him out of his sight for a good hour because he’s afraid of what Stiles might do, like sneak out of the castle to find justice in his own way, so he asked to be escorted to his chambers as an alternative.

He watches the royal physician—he thinks Gaius is his name—apply bandages carefully on Derek’s shoulder, his fingers nimble and trained.

He bows curtly when he sees Stiles enters the room, but doesn’t give him much attention besides that, returning to tend Derek immediately. Stiles decides that he likes him.

When Gaius finishes his job, Stiles asks him, “Did someone come visit him before me?”

“Yes,” he nods. “Princess Cora was here earlier.”

“Anyone else?”

“No, just her.”

“Good. That’s good.”

Sensing Stiles has finished with his conversation, the physician gathers up his instruments and puts them carefully inside his box. Stiles feels like making more conversation will bother his working rhythm, but he couldn’t help himself.

"Will he be alright?” he asks again, referring to Derek.

There’s a reassuring smile on Gaius' face, like he’s expecting Stiles to ask him that question all along.

"Yes, Your Highness. There is no need to worry. The arrow is poisoned with wolfsbane which slows down his body’s metabolism, thus it might slow his healing, but it did not go as deep as intended. Perhaps since the King held it in place."

"Is he going to wake soon?"

"I would advise you stay in your own chamber tonight, but what are my words worth to a man wanting to wait by his lover's bedside?” Gaius answers his questions with another one.

Stiles reaches for Derek’s hand, and it’s colder than he would like it to be. He entwined their fingers nevertheless, hoping his own heat will transfer to Derek and warm him up.

”He took an arrow for me. I can not leave him."

“Yes,” Gaius nods. “You are very lucky, Your Highness.”

The door to the room opens behind them and Stiles stands up on instinct, covering Derek’s body from the door. Gaius notices the person who makes their entrance to the room before Stiles.

"My Queen,” he curtsies as he walks out, leaving Stiles with Derek’s mother.

She walks as gracefully as ever to the other side of the bed, where Gaius was standing just a minute ago. She doesn’t say anything, she doesn’t even acknowledge Stiles’ presence in the room. She stands still and closes her eyes. Then she opens them and begins to push Derek’s hair out of his face.

She was praying, Stiles concludes.

"Are you here to slit my throat?” he asks tentatively.

"Be quiet,” she hissed at him.

"I'm sorry. This is because of me."

The Queen doesn’t reply.

"I'm sorry,” Stiles says again, a little louder this time.

"Why are you apologising? Because someone wants to kill you?”

There’s no tone to her voice, which makes it that much harder for Stiles to understand what she’s thinking.

"Derek is hurt."

"Yes, but he is strong. He will push through,” she points out as she straightens her back. “Now wipe that forlorn look off your face and put on a strong demeanour. You are to rule in his stead."

The Queen bends to drop a kiss on her son's forehead and then she goes as quietly as she came, leaving Stiles to his own thoughts.

* * *

Stiles wakes up the next morning and aches all over, which is to be expected since he fell asleep on the chair. Derek’s not awake yet and the longer the wait the more anxious Stiles gets. The day passes by and the nightfall comes again, with Gaius popping every three or four hours to check on Derek’s vitals signs.

Stiles is so close to losing his mind as the sun sets on the horizon. To his luck, Isaac comes into the room before he can contemplate throwing himself off from the balcony, giving him the distraction he needs.

Stiles greets Isaac with his proper title. “Lord Commander.”

He bows, then asks Stiles a question, "How is the King?"

"Rested."

"I would like to give notice to you."

"What notice?” Stiles asks, standing up to stretch his arms and legs.

"My resignation. I have been negligent in my duties and it is unforgivable to let the King bleed under my watch."

He turns around to addresses the other man directly. "I don’t speak for Derek, but I would imagine his disagreement with you leaving your post. So keep it, until you can tell him in person."

"Your Highness, I—“

That might be the first time Stiles hears Isaac addressing him genuinely.

"No more,” he holds up a hand. “Now to the important question.”

To his surprise, Isaac relents. "Yes."

Stiles motions for him to take the chair next to Stiles’ own. ”Why would anyone want me dead?”

He doesn’t seem taken aback by Stiles’ query. Stiles has his own theories, spending time in a room with someone who’s not awake definitely gives you some time for thinking, but he wants to know what Isaac thinks. It’s always good to get a fresh perspective on a matter and the commander knows more of Mercian politics than Stiles does.

"How many guesses do I get?"

“Three," Stiles entertains him.

"Very well. One, the arrow was not intended for you. It might be a lucky trajectory, we don't know yet. Two, someone knows very well what the King would do in such situation... and choosing to aim at you would mean higher chances of hurting him."

"And the third one?"

"Not everyone is happy with your union. Some people profit from war instead of peace."

"The weapons merchant,” Stiles comments.

"Some of the bigger lords with many blacksmiths under their household, yes. And there are also smugglers. Mercia do not grow its own pineapple, did you know? We have to get it from Armoor. For two years, the country is without the fruit except for those willing to pay a high price for illegal goods. When you came here bearing peace, many of them were instantly out of jobs. Maybe before they had hope that the marriage will fall through, that Derek's father will be healthy again, strong enough to see the supposed nonsense that happened during his leave. Some people just want suffering, Your Highness.”

The full weight of his words registers with Stiles. If the goal was to make him suffer, whoever planned this got what they wanted. The arrow might not have pierced his own body, but the pain that resides within him is much greater than a physical manifestation.

"You will do well to find out who is behind this,” he tells Isaac.

"Yes, I swear to you."

"Thank you, Commander. You have my leave to retire.”

Isaac nods before getting up. As he’s walking away some of his words echo back at Stiles.

“Isaac," he calls out, causing Isaac to stop in his movement and turns around. He looks as surprised as Stiles feels, perhaps because he’s never called him by his first name before. “How did you know he was going to protect me?"

"I didn't mean to overstep."

"No, I just want to understand."

"The King is in love, Your Highness,” he enunciates each and every syllable as if afraid Stiles wouldn’t understand him. “Love makes people's action predictable. He doesn’t love easily, but when he does, he gives it everything he has.”

“I never asked for his life,” Stiles mumbles softly.

Isaac nods in understanding. “If you had, then he wouldn’t have given it.”

He leaves the room before Stiles could think of a reply.

* * *

Derek wakes the day after, a couple hours after the first light comes. He reaches out to Stiles as soon as he opens his eyes. Stiles takes his hand and helps him prop himself up, asks him what he needs. He brings Derek water from the table, tilts the cup to his mouth and watches Derek drink.

He tells the guard outside the chamber to call for Gaius, who comes quickly and checks Derek’s bandages before telling them he’ll be back in the afternoon to change them. Stiles watches him go and close the door behind him.

Then there is nothing left to be done, so Stiles burst.

“That has to be the stupidest thing you have ever done.”

“I once rode into battle without my breastplate,” Derek challenges him, raising his chin in defiance.

Stiles gives him a hard look to let Derek know that he’s not even close to joking about the matter.

“Shut up.” He sits down on the chair that also doubled as his bed for the last couple of nights.

“I saved your life and this is how you repay me? Insults?”

Stiles purposefully ignores him. Derek shifts his position to get a better look at his husband and winces at the sharp pain shooting from his shoulder down to his spine. Stiles sees it and reaches out to massage his hand soothingly.

“How’s the shoulder?”

“It hurts.”

Stiles looks at the bandages covering the entry wound. “How bad?”

“Not excruciating. It’s just an arrow. I have been to war, you know?”

“How did you know it was an arrow?” Derek doesn’t reply immediately and that’s all the sign Stiles needs. “You don’t lie fast enough.”

“There was a good chance of it being an arrow,” he shrugs, nonchalant.

“It could have been a spear.”

“It wasn’t,” Derek insisted.

“This time.”

“There won’t be a next time. Isaac is going to be driven by guilt for letting a single drop of my blood hit the ground that he will not rest until he finds the person behind this.”

Derek moves his right hand to cover Stiles’ own where it’s resting against his left forearm. Stiles knows it’s an effort to comfort him, but he doesn’t feel the slightest bit comforted. There’s something that he doesn’t understand that has been bothering him since he witnessed Derek moving rather automatically in front of him.

Maybe he already knows the answer, but he simply doesn’t want to admit it. Maybe he just wants to hear it straight from the horse’s mouth.

He retracts his hand and settles it on his lap. Derek watches him do it, unable to reach that far for him. “Why did you do it?”

“Do what?”

“Shield me.”

“If memory serves, you were trying to do the same,” he counters. Stiles doesn’t react to it, he knows when Derek’s trying to steer the conversation away from himself. Derek notices his sullen outlook and sighs. “You are my husband,” he points out.

“Only in writing.”

“And so? I honour the writing as I honour you.”

“Speak only the truth.” Stiles is being difficult, he knows.

“It is the truth.”

“No one does anything without reason,” he tries his best to push the right answer out of Derek, because he’s yearning to hear him say the words.

“You have grown on me. I care for you. I wanted to protect you, so I did. It came naturally to me.”

It’s exactly what he wanted to hear, only a thousand times better. A thousand times better because Derek says it in the most Derek-like way possible and there’s no hint of deceit in his words.

Stiles stares at him and Derek stares back, searching for a reaction, any reaction.

“You are infuriating,” Stiles sighs.

Derek doesn’t seem to understand his frustration. “What troubles you so much?”

“You acted without thinking, or if you were, only of yourself. What if you had died? All of this for nothing. Your country would be left without a male heir. It would crumble. Your sisters— devastated. Your mother would have lost two men important to her in the same moon. Is that what you intended?”

“As King, I have to fight for and protect what I have. What matters to me. In that very moment, it was you. It is as simple as that.”

That’s it. Stiles gives up. How can he even continue fighting? He’s not only lost this argument battle, he already lost the goddamn war when it comes to Derek. The king’s saying all the right words and it hits all the right buttons in Stiles, he has no choice but to admit defeat.

“I have lost.”

Derek chuckles. “That’s a first.”

Stiles makes up his mind in that moment. He kicks his sandals off his feet and they land somewhere near the door. He climbs on the bed, raises his tunic to his thigh and settles into Derek’s lap.

“What are you doing?”

“Mounting you,” he says in a matter-of-fact tone, trying to sound as confident as possible. He has no idea what he’s doing, but Derek doesn’t need to know that.

Derek laughs at his answer, a beautiful sound that Stiles wants to never stop hearing.

“One should not be on top their first time,” he teases.

Stiles reaches down to undo the lace on Derek’s undergarment as he speaks, “Make an exception, your body’s not ready for any strain like that.”

He gets another laugh for his comment and Derek expects him to stop, maybe, though he doesn’t. His fingers work their way to free Derek’s forming erection and for a second, Derek is too surprised to say anything.

“Wait,” Derek grabs his hands when he realises just how serious Stiles is.

Stiles looks at him through his lashes, head still facing down.

“For what?”

Derek removes Stiles’ hands from their place on his groin. “Not like this,” he shakes his head.

“Isn’t this what you wanted? Your body certainly agrees with me.”

Stiles looks down then and Derek follows his line of sight, though he seems terribly set in his decision because Stiles can feel him going soft underneath him. Derek is literally killing the mood by the power of his own sheer will. Stubborn.

He pats Stiles’ thigh. Once, and then a second time. “No. Come on down.”

Stiles has no intention to sound like a petulant child, but the small “Why?” that escapes him definitely classifies as a whine.

Derek places one hand on either side of Stiles’ face, cradling it. He looks straight into Stiles's eyes as he speaks. “I want to do right by you, so not like this.”

Stiles removes himself from Derek’s lap, settling down on the bed next to him instead. The king pulls him closer, running his hand gingerly up and down Stiles’ arm.

“You’re choosing to be honourable now?”

“I have always been honourable.”

Stiles buries his face on Derek’s side. He wills the world to split in half and swallow him whole, but it doesn’t come true no matter how much he wishes it. “I humiliated myself,” he groans.

“Not quite. I do have a request.”

He looks up at Derek, who has a small, shy smile on his face. “What?”

Derek looks away for a moment like he’s trying to regain his composure, then he faces Stiles and vocalises his wish. “Kiss me.”

Stiles groans again, this time for effect. This man is going to be the death of him, he knows it for sure.

“You are so backward.”

“Are you denying a man his dying wish?”

Stiles pushes himself up from the bed, using his hands to steady himself. One on the bed, the other gripping the headboard.

“You are not dying,” he declares.

“No?”

“I won’t allow it.”

He covers Derek’s lips with his own, successfully throwing out all of the remaining arguments from Derek’s mouth and mind. It starts out chaste, like they are trying to find balance in this new, fragile sport they've only recently discovered.

Derek’s fingers find their way to the nape of Stiles’ neck, slowly going up to his hair, playfully tugging it. Stiles hums against his lips in response, happy with the development. Derek, then, takes this as a cue to go further. He licks along the bottom line of Stiles’ lips, asking for permission, which Stiles gives without hesitation.

When Derek’s tongue slips into his mouth, Stiles thinks he’s going to spontaneously combust.

He doesn’t have the chance though, because before he can fully bask in the glory of it, Derek’s already pulling away. A hand planted firmly on Stiles’ shoulder.

“Enough,” Derek decides.

“One more,” Stiles pleads, without even thinking.

Derek gives him a look like he’s considering it. As his gaze shifts down from Stiles’ eyes to his mouth, somehow Stiles knows that he’s already given in.

He expects Derek to dive back in and kiss him on the lips, but instead he brushes his lips gently on Stiles’ forehead and holds their position for a moment. It fills Stiles’ stomach with butterflies and makes his heart aches in a way he never knew was possible before, so he couldn’t find it in himself to complain.

* * *

Stiles finds himself bumping into another person on his way out from the bedroom. “Cora,” he says, his surprise barely repressed as the tries to smooth down his hair.

“Oh, you are here. How’s—“ her eyes lift to Stiles’ face, where they search for answers to the obvious question. “I see all the signs of an embrace,” she comments.

Stiles flushes.

“He is resting,” he tells her, “but you can go inside. He’s awake.”

She considers him for a moment.

“Where are you going? You should not leave his side.”

Stiles doesn’t think he wants to, either, not for a very long time. He points his thumb to the direction of the supply room. “Retrieving extra pillows to prop his shoulder, then I will be back.”

Cora nods. “I will stay with him until your return.”

“Very kind of you to keep him company,” he smiles at her.

“Don’t be long,” she remarks. “I hate my brother, he’s a nuisance.”

“Yes,” Stiles agrees. “Hate explains why instead of sleeping you are visiting him in the dead of night with a worried look painted across the lines of your forehead.”

Cora does something very unbecoming of a princess in retaliation. She swats Stiles’ head hard enough to elicit a yelp.

* * *

Derek eventually gets strong enough that Gaius allows him to hold council meeting from his chambers. Stiles sits next to him most of the time, listens to him and gives his opinion when asked.

They have an argument one afternoon, because Stiles is reluctant to leave Derek’s side while the king thinks his husband can do other things that are way more important than taking care of him. Stiles avoids fighting with him by escaping to the gardens for a couple hours and when he comes back Derek’s exactly where he expects him to be.

“I brought you hydrangeas,” Stiles offers.

Derek extends a hand out to him, which Stiles takes. “From the garden?”

He climbs into the bed with Derek and holds the flowers against Derek’s chest. Derek’s breathing slows as he relaxes.

“They are blooming now.”

Derek brings his fingers up to his slightly parted lips as he tilts his head at Stiles’ unprompted explanation. “Are you courting me?” he asks, slightly confused. “Never mind that, we are married.”

Stiles rolls his eyes, because of course Derek doesn’t let him be a romantic for once.

“I wouldn’t know, actually. I have never done it before,” he admits.

This seems to surprise Derek more than the act of bringing him flowers.

“Aren’t you almost three and twenty?”

“What does age have to do with it?”

“You must have suitors,” he points out.

Stiles waves his hand around dismissively. “None of them interests me.”

“And what does interest you?”

He gives it a thought. “A farm.”

“A farm?”

“I wish to be a farmer, in another life. It’s simpler. It’s purposeful.”

Derek chooses this moment to squeeze Stiles’ hand and nuzzles against his cheek playfully. “Being a prince is purposeful.”

“I suppose.”

Stiles brings their joined hands upwards and presses his mouth against the cut on Derek’s hand, right where the arrow that was meant for him grazed it.

“Stop,” Derek says suddenly. Stiles feels the desire to run away from the upcoming rejection.

“I’m sorry. Have I crossed a line?”

Derek shifts his position until he has his arms around Stiles, entrapping him. Stiles can feel his heart beating in his chest, the warmth radiating from his body.

“The answer is no. It’s just if you continue doing that, I would want to take you. I asked Gaius if it was possible but he advised me against it.”

Stiles blushes at the knowledge that Derek has been giving the idea a lot of consideration, up to the point of asking the physician’s medical opinion of its possibility. He stays silent for a moment, trying not to fall apart right there and then.

“Talk to me,” Derek says again. “It seems like your specialty.”

“About what?”

“Anything. Everything.”

Stiles smiles.

“I have always wondered…” he trails off, uncertain if he should continue.

“About what?” Derek parrots him in the same tone.

Stiles takes a deep breath. “How did you never lose a battle?”

“You hated losing, didn’t you?”

“Wouldn’t you? It’s not a great feeling. It’s not just my pride, I lost a lot of lives.”

“I wouldn’t know, I’ve never lost. You said so yourself.” Derek lifts his chin in an attempt to look smug, but the rest of his demeanour reads wrong to Stiles.

“Cocky,” he comments. Derek lets him have a small smile before quickly returning to his somber expression.

“You won’t like the answer.”

Stiles knows even before he asked the question that he’s probably not going to like it, but that doesn’t mean he doesn’t want to understand how Derek thinks. “Go ahead.”

“Okay, but I’ve predicted your reaction,” he looks away from Stiles. “I never lose because I fight like I have nothing to lose.”

“Explain that to me.”

“I always charged head first into the whole thing and hoped to die. If I want to die, that means I don’t have to worry about dying. I don’t have to mind my step so I won’t fall, I don’t have to avoid the spears being thrown at me or the swords lashing at my direction so I won’t get hurt.”

Stiles digests his words. “You don’t attempt to minimise casualty.”

“Exactly, which is what you always tried to do. You wanted to win, but you wanted to save as many lives as you can. It doesn’t work like that. It didn’t work like that. No, instead I wished to be the casualty. The only thing I attempted is to bring as many enemy soldiers down with me.”

“You were that ready to sacrifice your life just to follow your father’s orders?”

Derek grimaces. He lets Stiles’ hand go. “It’s not that.”

“You think you deserve death,” Stiles tries again.

“No, not like that either.”

He gives Stiles a sad look after answering and Stiles figures out what he meant instantly.

“If you die, you won’t have to kill anymore. Is that it?”

Derek clears his throat. “In simpler words, yes. I’m good at killing. I wish I could be good at something else, but I’m not. It doesn’t mean I enjoy it.”

“That is a twisted sense of logic,” Stiles shudders.

“You tell me. My men thought that it was bravery, that it was chivalrousness. Then, you know what they say: imitation is the highest form of compliment. They paid me respect by following in my footsteps, and it killed most of them.”

Derek evades Stiles’ gaze at any cost, so the younger man takes his hand back in his and brings it to his chest. “You are right. I don’t like your answer.”

The king gives in after a beat, dropping a soft kiss on Stiles’ forehead before resting his chin on top of his husband’s head.

“I know. That is what I like about you,” Derek says, more to the air above Stiles’ head than Stiles himself.

“That you can read me?”

“No, that you are true to who you are. You won’t stray from the kind of person you’ve chosen to be.”

“And what kind of person is that?” Stiles challenges him.

“The best kind,” he replies without hesitation. Stiles wishes he could see the look on Derek's face when he says it.

* * *

Stiles bumps into someone on his way out one morning.

“Oh! I’m sor—“ he stares right into a familiar face. “Laura?”

“You seem glad to see me,” she jokes.

It actually takes Stiles awhile to process this because the last time they saw each other she was nothing but hostile to him, and now she makes a surprise appearance all friendly. Something is definitely off, but he decides he should let Derek deal with it. She is his sister, after all.

“I am. Derek will be thrilled. Should I take you to him?”

She looks around as if checking if anyone’s noticed them and seems satisfied when she finds they’re the only two people in the hallway.

“Let’s talk first,” she says quietly.

Gone was Stiles’ hope of letting Derek take care of the problem.

“The library?” he offers.

“Yes.”

As soon as they enter the room, Laura locks the door behind them. Stiles watches her every movement, confused but intrigued. Her pregnancy is showing now, even without the continuous placement of her hand on her belly it would be difficult not to notice the bump.

“Is everything all right?”

She opens the window before turning to face Stiles. “I heard from Isaac you tried to find who did this on your own.”

Apparently Laura is going to serve as Scott’s proxy in reminding him not to make rash decisions in the heat of the moment. Well, Stiles knows at some point he’s going to have this talk, he just never thought it would be with her.

“Well, he stopped me. I know it was reckless, I just— I wanted to, in that moment.”

She walks to the other side of the room where she leans against the wall. “Do you care for my brother?”

Stiles knows he does. “Of course.”

“Do you love him?” she asks him again.

Stiles thinks he does, but he’s not ready to say it out loud yet since it would make it real.

“I don’t know,” he says instead. “I feel something for him and I know it’s not hate.”

Laura licks her lips. “We got off on the wrong foot.”

“I didn’t take offence, so there’s nothing to worry about. Stress isn’t good for your condition,” Stiles replies, gesturing to her stomach.

“There’s a story I wish to tell you, but I ask you not to interrupt me until I have finished.”

Stiles knows there’s no use trying to stop her, even though he’s not sure he wants to hear what she has to say. “Very well,” he relents, pulling out a chair for her, “but please have a seat.”

She walks slowly towards Stiles and sits down, a grim expression on her face. She doesn’t say anything for awhile and Stiles doesn’t ask her to, whatever she wants to share with him must be of heavy substance if she finds it hard to even begin.

“Cora and I… we had it easier,” she starts at last. “We were the girls. We were supposed to be our father’s joy, and we were.”

“Derek was supposed to be his pride, but my father’s pride was only of his own’s doing. Derek got cast aside and became a shadow, a reminder that his time would end and he’d be replaced by his own son. That knowledge created a strain between the two of them.”

Stiles listens to her quietly. When Laura lifts her eyes to his, he can see the residual pain in them.

“Three years ago, we were having a family dinner in my parent’s chambers. My father said he had an announcement to make. I was to be married in a fortnight’s time to a man I’ve only seen once in my life. His words caught me off-guard. I knew my marriage was going to be a political one, but I never thought it would proceed so abruptly. The illusion of proper courting and taking my time, even choosing who I’d end up with, was all gone in an instant. Derek held my hand across the table and somehow I knew it would be alright.”

She stops, hands half-curling into fists. Stiles takes her hands in his, earning a smile for his effort. The first smile Laura’s ever given to him, if memory serves. Stiles expects her to recoil from his touch, but Laura doesn't take her hand back.

“You see, my father wasn’t done with his announcements. He told us he was going to declare war on your country over a small piece of land, a decision my mother questioned immediately because the land held no value to us. He slapped her. Derek got up so fast he knocked his chair to the ground, he told my father that any war he’s going to wage will be done without him.”

Her hands start to tremble slightly.

“You don’t have to tell me,” Stiles clarifies.

Laura shakes her head, clearly determined to finish what she’s started.

“My father picked up a bread knife and held it against my mother’s throat. Then he cut her. Not deep enough to be significant, but it was enough to leave a mark. Cora was thirteen, you see. Derek had no choice. So he went to war and the man who came back carried the sins of my father on his shoulders.”

They stay in comfortable silence for quite some time after that. Stiles doesn’t know what to say, though it’s clear how he feels towards the situation. Laura, on the other hand, seems glad to finally get that bit of information off her chest. Stiles imagines she couldn’t exactly say this out loud to just anyone, maybe not even her husband.

“I know it’s not fitting to hate on the dead, but that’s how I feel right now.”

The princess stares at him. “The feeling is mutual,” she admits.

“How did your mother continue to stand by a man like that?” Stiles has an entire level of newfound respect for Derek’s mother.

Laura reflects on his question. She watches him carefully as if making a decision whether or not she’ll give him an answer.

“I don’t think she did. I think she stayed so she could poison him and watch him die slowly.” She has apparently decided to confound Stiles with each of her sentences today. “I’ve surprised you by saying something that can land me in prison, an indication that I trust you. Now, you trust me.”

Stiles nods. He does.

Laura stands up carefully, still holding Stiles’ hand. She tugs at him until he stands up next to her.

“Let me give Derek the good news that we’re going to start taking each other’s side as opposed to his from now on.”

Stiles navigates them to the door. “Come, before he kills me for keeping you away.”

* * *

A month passes by and Derek’s recovery is as well as it’s expected to be. Stiles has stopped lurking around the castle to monitor Derek since he caught him once and ordered him to stop immediately, so now he has Isaac doing the dirty work for him.

Before he retires for the day, Isaac’s told him that Derek’s fully recovered.

“I hear you are well,” Stiles greets his husband as he returns to their chamber after a day of ruling Mercia.

Derek hums absentmindedly in reply. “The bandages are removed today and the healing salve proved to work. I am pronounced healthy.”

Derek gently removes the crown from his head and places it on the velvet cushion. The cushion itself is settled on top of a dresser the servants had brought in for the sole purpose of holding it. He shrugs off his royal shirt and pants, folding them neatly and placing them in the laundry basket on the corner of the room. He retrieves his night robe from the chair and puts it on in one smooth movement. Stiles watches him.

“That is good news," he says finally.

Derek looks at him, a playful smile on his face. “Is there something you want?”

“Are you playing hard to get?” Stiles asks him. He gets up from the bed and walks toward Derek until they’re only a few centimeters apart from each other, body pressed against body.

“I’m not sure I understand,” Derek answers.

Stiles places his hand on Derek’s crotch, palming it through his robe. Derek’s fingers encircle Stiles’ wrist, his motion divided: half holding it where it is, half caressing along the length of Stiles’ forearm.

“Still don’t understand?”

Derek shrugs, still feigning ignorance. “If you care to use your words, it might give me some clues.”

“Well, then, if that is how you want to play it,” Stiles takes a step backward. “I will retire to bed. Alone.”

He starts to walk away, his arm sliding in Derek’s grip. Derek doesn’t let go, though. He pulls Stiles right back in and plants his lips on Stiles’. No one can blame Stiles for the excited gasp that comes out of him.

Derek places both his hands on Stiles’ thighs and lifts. For a moment there, Stiles feels his brain activating his fight or flight response because no one ever pulls him off the ground in a movement that’s not a fighting maneuver. It just happens that Derek quickly gets them both on the bed so Stiles doesn’t have time to kick him in the shin.

Derek takes his lips from Stiles’ to explore his neck while his fingers work on all the knots on Stiles’ shirt.

"Just rip it," Stiles says, impatient.

Derek pulls back just to give Stiles a confused look. ”What’s the rush? Someone worked very hard on these clothes."

Stiles lifts an arm to swat him on the head, but Derek catches it. ”You're such a tease,” he huffs.

"Not if I deliver, which I will."

"Arrogant."

Derek smirks. “Confident,” he corrects Stiles before going back to work. Even though he doesn’t take Stiles’ advice to rip the shirt and be done with it, Derek probably still makes world record on the time he takes to undress Stiles. Granted, he’s more trained in putting on and taking off Mercian-styled clothes, but it’s still impressive. Or maybe Stiles’ biased and everything Derek does is impressive to him.

Derek kisses him one more time for good measure after he throws Stiles’ pants on the floor next to the bed. Then he lets his hands and his mouth do whatever they damn well please.

“Oh,” Stiles squeals.

Derek looks up at him in alarm. “What is it? Are you okay?”

Stiles rolls his eyes at how easily Derek panics. “I’m okay,” he tells him, then he lifts Derek’s right hand in the air. “The signet ring. It feels cold against my skin.”

“Should I remove it?”

“No. Keep it on. I like the sensation,” he grins.

Derek retreats to his sitting position and closes a fist around Stiles’ cock, pushing down a little. There’s an excited gasp that floats in the air, though at this point neither Derek or Stiles is sure which one of them made the sound.

Then he runs his tongue on the length of it and Stiles loses his mind. It must have taken Derek less than two minutes to have him trembling from climax, a mess barely contained in Derek’s strong embrace. Stiles expects him to spit afterward, but it would not be in Derek’s nature to be predictable. Instead, he swallows the entirety of the load professionally and even licks his lips for good measure.

Stiles decides that patience isn’t a virtue in this particular moment. He positions himself so that he’s lying flat on his stomach, exposing his entry point to Derek, ready for the taking whenever the king decides to make the move.

But he doesn’t.

Instead, Derek poses a question. “What are you doing?”

Stiles has to prop himself up on his elbows and throws Derek a look over his shoulder.

“Giving you access.”

Derek puts his hands on Stiles’ side and turns him over in one fluid flick of his wrists.

“No,” he says, kissing his way up from Stiles’ happy trail to his neck, leaving a mark where Stiles’ neck joins his left shoulder. “I want to look upon your face as we share our pleasure.”

“Do you talk this sweetly to everyone you bed?”

“No,” he says, serious. Stiles surges up, claiming Derek’s mouth with his own.

Derek freezes.

“What?” Stiles asks, concerned.

“I… didn’t prepare for this. I have no oil.”

Stiles doesn't know whether to be flattered that Derek didn't return in their room with hopes that Stiles would put out for him, or irked that his lack of preparation prolongs the already stretched-out wait. Either way, at least one of them came prepared.

“I do. _I_ prepared for this.”

Stiles reaches under the bed for his discarded pants and struggles to find the pockets. He eventually manages to retrieve the small container and shoves it in Derek’s open hand.

Derek looks down at his palm and decides to drop his entire weight on top of Stiles, his hardness pressing against Stiles’ own. It would have been entirely erotic if it’s not for the fact that he’s full-on laughing, burying his face in the crook of Stiles’ neck.

He pulls back after a moment, looking directly into Stiles’ eyes. It makes Stiles want to look away, but he couldn’t. “It makes me ridiculously happy hearing you say that.”

“Carry on,” he urges him.

Derek stares at him intently. “You want this?”

“Yes,” Stiles nods.

“And you are sure?”

“Are you?”

“I will give you whatever you ask, provided that I am capable.” He still has that serious look on his face.

“Then fuck me,” Stiles replies with conviction.

“For this occasion, I prefer the term making love,” he states as he enters an oil-coated finger into Stiles. Stiles squirms underneath him, both from the words and the feeling of Derek inside him.

Derek looks up, eyes searching Stiles’ expression.

“Good?”

“Very. Just… strange.”

“I’ll go slow.”

“Yes, please.”

Derek takes his time, he knows they aren’t in a hurry. Stiles buries his fingers in the dark locks of his husband’s hair, his eyes never wandering off Derek’s features. His lashes, his green eyes full of want, his lips. He watches every little detail carefully, branding them into his memory.

When Derek finally pulls his fingers out and positions himself to penetrate, Stiles reaches down to take his hand on his own. He laces their fingers together and gives Derek a smile, brushing the arrow mark carefully with his other hand. Derek leans up to kiss him as Stiles hauls his legs and props them on Derek’s waist, and then they finally become one. It is euphoria unlike any other, the feeling of being together wholly, without an inch of separation.

Derek picks up the rhythm, silent but methodical in his movements, both of his hands now pining Stiles’ own above Stiles’ head.

He shifts a little and Stiles clenches around him, eliciting a guttural moan from Derek. “If you keep doing that, it will be over soon.”

“I don’t think I can hold on for much longer,” Stiles pants. He is trying his best, but he can literally see the edge he’s about to go over in his periphery.

“That’s my line,” Derek rasps.

He gave one more thrust, which hit all the right spots in Stiles, and that is all it takes. They come together, Derek inside Stiles and Stiles making a mess on both their stomachs and the bedsheet.

“I thought you have control," Stiles teases after, even when he's still out of breath himself.

“Apparently not when it comes to you,” he smiles.

* * *

Derek traces his finger absentmindedly along the curves of Stiles’ neck, to his shoulder and down to his side, before letting his hand rests on the small of his back. Stiles closes his eyes and enjoys the contact. Derek’s hands are rough—not surprising for someone who’s trained for fighting his whole life—and decorated with swordsman callouses, but they are warm and gentle against Stiles’ skin.

“Are you a virgin?”

Stiles opens his eyes to find Derek carefully studying him. “Isn’t it a little late for that question?”

“Well?”

He sighs. “I am not now.”

“Oh,” Derek realises with a little more regret in his voice than Stiles’ would have liked. “I should have asked before.”

Stiles snuggles in closer to him. “I thought you knew.”

“How? You didn’t tell me. I am not mind reader.”

“Well, the night we first kissed, you said, ‘no one should be on top their first time,’” he points out.

“I was joking!” he exclaims. "I just said that because— because I thought you were fooling around.”

Derek’s eyes are wide in surprise and he looks younger, caught up in the moment when his biggest problem is a simple miscommunication. Creases of worry appear on his forehead and Stiles reaches up to trace them with his fingers until they disappear. He finds Derek looking at him when he pulls his hand back, and he couldn’t contain the urge anymore.

Stiles kisses him, chaste and sweet. “It doesn’t matter.”

“Of course it does,” Derek protests stubbornly.

“It was amazing, Derek.”

He’s pretty sure he’s given Derek more than enough indication during the act itself that it was amazing, but the quiet way Derek still questions it makes Stiles wants to whisper his reassurance over and over again in his ear until he’s sick of it.

“Yes?”

Stiles nods. “Yes. Affirmative.”

“I’m a virgin,” Derek continues after a brief pause.

“No, you are not,” Stiles chuckles, closing his eyes. “You’re quite infamous for being the opposite.”

“No, I mean, in that sense. I am.”

His answer is definitely vague, because even Stiles couldn’t decipher the meaning of it.

“In what sense?”

“You know…” Derek trails off.

Stiles hauls a leg over Derek’s hips to catch his attention. “Elaborate, please.”

“No one has ever entered me,” he says finally.

This piece of information is both news and not news to Stiles. He didn’t think there’s any position Derek hasn’t tried, but at the same time giving yourself fully to someone else is a level of vulnerability he couldn’t picture Derek sharing with anyone. Stiles would know, he’d just done it.

The conversation is getting too heavy for Stiles to get into it, so he tries to lighten up the mood.

“You deny the rest of the world that pleasure?” he teases.

Derek kisses him softly, and then, “I won’t deny you.”

“Really?”

Stiles hates how much he doesn’t sound like himself when he poses the question. He sounds happy and hopeful, two things he hasn’t truly feel in a long time.

“If you wish,” Derek says lightly before pulling Stiles impossibly close.

* * *

One morning they wake up early and Stiles manages to convince Derek to stay in bed. It already feels like a good day.

“Talk me through your scars,” Stiles says Derek holds his hand on top of the one left by the arrow.

“Which ones? There are many.”

Stiles’ fingers travel to the faint mark on Derek’s lower stomach. “This one?”

“Someone threw a shield at me in the Battle of Loun. It broke skin and made quite a mess.”

“What about this one?” he touches one underneath Derek’s collarbone.

Derek pretends to think about it for awhile, as if he couldn’t remember. Stiles presses a smile against his arm.

“Tourney. Joust. The tip of the spear chipped and went in between my armour and my helmet.”

Stiles lets his fingers travel to Derek’s shoulder then, and slowly moves them toward his back. He looks straight into Derek’s eyes as he does this, giving the other man every chance to recoil or back away from his impending question.

Derek doesn’t say anything, so Stiles asks him carefully.

“The ones here, the whip marks. Where did you get them? I know you were never captured during the war.”

The king closes his eyes. “They come from before, when I was a child.”

“Were you kidnapped?”

“No, nothing like that,” he takes a deep breath. “I was practicing fight moves with my weapons master using wooden swords one afternoon when my father came by. I was… four and ten, maybe. Father wanted to spar with me, which at the time I considered a great honour. That is... until I knocked him down. Then he had the commander of his King’s Guard strapped me to a post.”

Derek gives his answer at a normal pace but to Stiles it feels like a carriage of information hit him in the face at high speed.

“Pardon— what?”

Stiles doesn’t understand. He doesn’t think he wants to.

“It was humiliating, you see, for a king to fall on his back while sparing with his heir. So he taught me a lesson,” Derek explains.

Stiles still couldn’t accept it. He sits up on the bed. “Those are not the marks of one strike.”

“It was seven before I passed out. I think they stopped after that.”

“No one stopped him?”

“He was King,” Derek shrugs. “He told the Lord Commander he could either do as he was told or take my place.”

Anger boils in Stiles’ blood. What kind of twisted person would let a teenage boy be strapped to a post and whipped? He wants to find whoever was involved and makes sure they pay for what they’ve done.

“The Lord Commander, is he still alive?” he demands.

Derek understands the meaning of his question, so he reaches out a hand to caress Stiles’ cheek, seeking to comfort him. “Dead. A long time ago.”

“I’m sorry,” Stiles tells him.

“For what? You didn’t cause this.”

He looks away, it suddenly dawns on him that whatever Derek’s father had done to him, Stiles might have caused just as much pain if not more.

“For all I know, I have caused even more. During the war.”

Derek pushes himself up, now sitting alongside Stiles. “It was as you said, a war. You fought for what you believed was right, I fought out of loyalty for a greedy man who disciplined his teenage son by means of torture. It is clear which one of us made the mistake.”

Stiles doesn’t reply.

Derek moves to pepper him with kisses on his neck and jaw because he couldn’t stand being ignored. Stiles pushes him away playfully and reaches down to his right thigh.

“What about this one?”

“It was a fork,” he laughs, sinking back into the bed.

Stiles’s not part of the inside joke just yet, so there’s nothing much he can do but stare at Derek, baffled.

“Did you fall over drunk after a feast?”

Derek pulls Stiles down and Stiles settles his head on Derek’s chest. He can feel the vibrating of his vocal chords as Derek speaks, “A young son of a southern lord came to see Cora a year into the war, intending to court her. I teased her about it, as any good-natured older brother would.”

“She stabbed you,” Stiles deadpans. He is not surprised, only amused.

“I can only be grateful she aimed for my thigh. I didn’t hurt much, either, probably because I was too busy laughing.”

“This,” Stiles points to his elbow, “is from falling from my horse, racing with Scott.”

Derek bends his head a little, just enough to get a good angle to kiss the small scar. When he pulls back, his eyes are twinkling. Stiles wants to kiss him.

There’s a knock.

“Come in,” Stiles answers.

Derek stares at him wildly, at their exposed skin. He quickly pulls the sheets over Stiles, a chivalrous attempt to hide his husband’s figure from public eyes.

A councilman appears from the door, bowing his head before looking up at Stiles and Derek, immediately averting his eyes back to the ground after realising what he’s just walked in on.

“Excuse me, Your Majesty, Your Highness. I’m sorry, but there is an urgent matter in the Great Hall that needs attending.”

“Then attend to it,” Derek says.

The councilman fidgets. “I’m afraid it calls for your presence, Your Majesty.”

“Councillor Vernon, I am naked.”

He lifts his head long enough to look Derek in the eyes. “I strongly believe you would want to put on a robe for this.”

* * *

“My name is Ivar. I am the late King’s illegitimate son, born from a whore in Eglen,” the stranger declares.

Derek takes in the man standing in front of him and feels like he’s looking into a distorted mirror.

“And how would we know you are telling the truth?”

“I have the confession of the man who employed my mother, who swore she was a virgin before given my father, the late King, who had been so passionate with her that she was out of work for the next fortnight after their encounter, the period during which it was discovered that she was carrying me. It was a long labour, that of mine. There were a midwife and a maester, who was summoned because of my mother’s complications, as she was at a very young age. Here I also bring the signed and dated birth letter from him, in which it says I was born three days before my brother, the reigning King. And as we know, the Maesters are sworn to always be truthful.”

Councillor Erica seems skeptical at his narrative. “Is that all?”

“Pardon me, my lady, but are you blind?” he replies just as sharp.

She takes offence at his words and stands up abruptly. “Guards! Seize him.”

The guards turn to Derek, waiting for his orders. Instead of agreeing, Derek focuses his attention towards the man in front of him and raises his hand patiently.

“Wait.”

He nods toward Ivar, motioning him to continue.

“If you are not, surely you can see that the King and I are two peas in a pod. There is no denying our blood.”

“It matters not. You are not legitimised by your father, thus you do not belong in this court,” Councillor Vernon advises.

Stiles knows that if the answer was that simple, they wouldn’t be standing here right now listening to what the man has to say.

“That is true,” Ivar smiles, “but the reigning King can legitimise me.”

“Which means he would have to give up his throne to you,” Councillor Lydia cautions, looking at Derek.

Ivar shrugs. “If he doesn’t, that is his choice, but the people deserve to know if the person sitting on their throne is not the rightful one.”

Stiles watches the scene unfold before his eyes in silence. A great many emotion passes over Derek’s face, from confusion, disbelief to a subtle hint of anger. He can also tell the moment Derek picks up the pieces and holds himself together.

“I will reflect upon your request as my Council examines your evidence.”

* * *

Stiles finds him in the garden, afterward, sitting on one of the bench right in the middle of the maze, Cora sitting beside him with her eyes directed at the sky.

“Surely you’re not thinking to abdicate?”

“It’s more complicated than that. If what he's saying is true and Derek doesn't legitimise him, the people can revolt,” Cora replies in her brother’s stead.

"Why? How can someone who's just appeared in court be more suitable to rule than another who's been raised to do so?"

Derek turns to give him his answer, “If he is, in fact, older than me, it doesn't matter. Mercia is his birth right. I can not in good conscience deny him that.”

“Do you think it could be?”

“I don’t know,” Derek answers him honestly.

“Previous kings are careful to not take the chance before an acceptable heir is born,” Stiles notes. He hopes for all his mistakes, Derek’s father at least granted him the throne.

Cora stares at him, her mouth set in a thin line. “Our father had his flaws.”

* * *

“Hello.”

When Stiles turns around to address the greeting, he’s surprised to find Derek’s half-brother has somehow made his way into the library with him.

“How did you get in here?”

“You are the husband,” he notes, eyeing Stiles closely.

Stiles understands then that he couldn’t even give this man, Ivar, a single hint that he’s scared or he might take advantage of the situation.

“I am,” he answers as calmly as he could manage.

Ivar leans against one of the bookcases, his posture casual. He’s acting like he’s catching up with an old friend or having an idle conversation with a stranger to pass the time.

“You are mesmerising from up close, the throne room was far too big for me to properly admire the view. It is said that your mind as sharp as the best warrior’s sword.”

Stiles doesn’t buy into his act. If he’s here, there must be something he wants. He doesn’t strike Stiles as the type who does anything without an ulterior motive.

“Why are you here?”

“To claim my birth right.”

Stiles shakes his head. “No, I mean, why are you in my library?”

“To see what kind of man you are, of course.”

“You have seen, now leave.”

“I won’t hurt you.”

Stiles stays quiet, choosing to observe Ivar’s mannerisms instead of replying to him. Ivar stares right back at him, then he laughs.

“It’s strange, isn’t it? It’s like looking at him. We could pass as twins, in another life, but in this universe the gods decided that he is to be king and I am merely dirt under his royal sandals.”

“Say what you’re really here for and leave,” Stiles’s has had enough of his games.

Ivar straightens his back and crosses his arms in front of his chest. He's not as tall as Derek is, but the way they carry themselves is eerily similar.

“I want you to choose me over him.”

It might have been funny how bold he was to say it if Stiles doesn’t believe that he means every word of it and even thinks Stiles would actually do as he says.

“Why would I do that?”

“Because I will give you what is rightfully yours,” he answers simply.

“Which is what?”

“Rachdale.”

Stiles smiles. He can breathe easily knowing Ivar has nothing to offer. “It is already mine.”

“Managed under Mercian rules,” he points out. “What I offer is to return it to Armoor, a sign of my good intention. A treaty of its own kind, unlike this prison you are trapped in. The land belongs to your country. Mercia only went to war for it because of my father’s ambition. Alas, I doubt the land is still fertile now after it is soiled with the blood of the fallen.”

“No,” Stiles says automatically. It’s not even a proposal worth considering.

Ivar raises his eyebrows and Stiles gets a weird feeling in his stomach because it feels like he’s looking into a magic mirror and seeing Derek when he first came to Mercia all over again.

“I can also give you other things, if you wish. You see, I was raised in a brothel. I know ways to pleasure my partner which my brother has never even imagined. I don’t even need to be covered in blood before the act. I’ll let you have me as a parting gift.”

Stiles’ hand moves to the dagger tucked safely on his belt. Ivar will die before he can fall to the ground if he dares to try anything without Stiles’ consent.

Fortunately for Ivar, he doesn’t make a move toward Stiles. Instead, he takes several steps backward.

“Don’t give your answer now. Think about it. I can give you your life back, your freedom.”

Stiles lifts up his chin. “I am free.”

“A mere illusion,” Ivar scoffs. “Do you really think if you want to go back to your country tomorrow, Derek will let you?”

“Yes.”

Ivar gives him a smug smile, as if he knows something Stiles doesn’t.

“Then try, and when he rejects you, you know where you can find me,” he says before disappearing down the hallway. 

* * *

The next council meeting is held the following morning. The agenda consists of discussing the course of action to handle the Ivar problem. Stiles’ brain keeps racking itself to find a way out of the situation. He has to outsmart Ivar or Derek can lose everything he’s earned, which is not an option at all.

“Your Majesty, before we start, I have an important matter to bring to attention.”

Derek nods, “Proceed.”

“This one,” the councilman points to Stiles, “has been colluding with the usurper. One of the servants saw them talking together in xhis library late last night and has brought the matter to my attention.”

Stiles’ heart skips a beat. He hasn’t told Derek about his encounter with Ivar, though he has planned to. He certainly did not expect to be ambushed like this.

“‘This one’, is your prince consort, so you will regard him with the respect that comes with his title,” Derek replies coolly, then turns his attention to Stiles. “Well?”

“I would never betray you,” is what comes out of Stiles. He didn’t plan his answer, but he knows the words are true as soon as they are spoken.

Derek nods, satisfied. “If you say so, then I believe you,” he turns his attention back to his Council. “Now what do we do about his claims?”

“Your Majesty,” the councilman tries again.

“No. If my husband speaks one thing, then it is the truth. I will not entertain any other ideas.”

* * *

Stiles's busying himself with old texts about tradition and succession lines in the library when he gets interrupted.

“Did you ask him, like I told you to?” Ivar materialises underneath the doorway, seemingly out of thin air. Stiles reminds himself to lock the doors whenever he's alone starting from now.

He thinks of a clever answer for rebuttal, but before he can deliver the blow, Derek appears right behind his half-brother.

“Ask who, what?” he says, his tone composed though Stiles can easily tell he's trying hard to keep it that way.

Ivar turns around, unsurprised. He probably planned for Derek to walk in on them, Stiles thought. It would only be clever to turn them against each other right before the hearing. A man alone is easier to take down.

The bastard gives Derek an unsettling grin, but he doesn't move from his place, only leaning casually against the wood. Derek moves past him, takes his place next to Stiles, one hand possessively resting on the small of his back.

“You, my dear brother. Ask you if your husband is allowed to leave this confinement.”

Stiles watches him, unsure if saying anything at this point would do more harm than good.

“He’s not a prisoner, he can leave the castle if he wants to." Derek sounds confident, but Stiles can feel his hesitation in the slight tremble of his hand.

Ivar straightens his back and takes a step forward.

“Forgive me, I did not make myself clear. When I said confinement, I meant your shadow. I meant the cage that is your joined chambers.” Derek tears his gaze away from Ivar and focuses on Stiles. Stiles, who for God's sake couldn't find it in himself to explain, answer, anything. The look of hurt in Derek's eyes is clear. Even Ivar notices it from across the room. “I see the question is not yet posed. I will leave you two to it, then.”

He leaves as quickly as he came, not a single evidence of his presence is left in the room. It might have felt like he was never there if it wasn't from the heavy tension in the air.

“You said you didn’t see him alone before," Derek says softly.

“No, I said I would never betray you."

Wrong! Stiles' brain screams at him as the words make their escape from his big, dumb-mouth. He shouldn't be defending himself or pointing out technicalities in his diction, he should be assuring Derek that nothing happened, nor will anything ever happen.

Derek moves away from him, putting adequate distance between the two of them. It hurts Stiles to know that he doesn't want to be in proximity to him. Derek runs his fingers through his hair before they become fisted on his sides.

When he speaks again, his voice is high-pitched. “And this is not betrayal? Sneaking around to see him behind my back?”

He's hysterical, Stiles decides. A guard passes by the door and gives them a cursory glance before moving on.

“Lower your voice.”

Derek does the exact opposite. “You don’t get to tell me what to do. Explain yourself.”

“I have not done anything wrong, what is there to explain?”

Instead of answering, Derek asks him a question. It feels like an accusation masked in a question. “Do you wish to go home?”

Stiles stares at him, hard. “This is my home.”

Derek scoffs. He's never been more dismissive of Stiles and they weren't on very good terms at the start of their marriage, which is saying a lot. Stiles just wants the conversation to end. They're not going to go anywhere on resolving the issue which doesn't even exist if they can't exchange words cool-headed.

“You don’t believe that, yet you are trying to sell the lie to me," he turns his back on Stiles.

“This is my home,” Stiles says again, with more conviction.

 _You are my home_ , he thinks to himself while looking at Derek.

“Go, then, if that will make you happy,” he makes a perfunctory wave with his hand.

“What are you—“

Derek cuts him off. “Go back to Armoor. I will honour the treaty, we will stay married, but there is no rule that says you have to live here and be miserable for the rest of your life.”

Stiles feels numb all over.

“Are you truly sending me away?”

“I am giving you what you want.”

“And I didn’t have to ask for it, what a great development,” Stiles mocks.

Derek doesn’t take the bait.

“I will tell Isaac to ready your horses for tomorrow,” he says with an air of finality.

Stiles opens his mouth and then closes it again. What is there to say if Derek’s already made up his mind?

“I will leave if you command it, but not tomorrow. I shall wait after the trial.”

Derek looks at him tiredly, like he doesn’t have the energy to fight Stiles anymore.

“Very well, you may stay. You can see me stripped of my title and my crown before you bring the good news to your family.”

Stiles stares at him in disbelief, the air between them heavy with tension. Derek looks exhausted and sad, which makes it harder for Stiles to stop himself from putting his arms around him. His chest raises and falls with each breath and Stiles watches his husband silently, the anger dissipating from his body replaced by hurt. Then Stiles makes the mistake of blinking and he's gone.

In the back of his mind, Stiles expects Derek to sleep in the spare room that night, but he never even returned to their chambers.

* * *

The next morning, he slips out of his chamber before the servants come to prepare breakfast and seeks out Isaac in the training yard. He knows he’s not getting a cordial treatment from the other man, but it’s hard to talk to someone when they’re doing their best to pretend they can’t see you. For the first five minutes, Isaac just carries on with his duties, commenting on the soldiers’ posture and stance without acknowledging Stiles’ presence.

Feeling like he’s wasting time, Stiles finally puts a hand on Isaac’s shoulder. Isaac gives him his attention then, looking at Stiles then down to where his hand is.

“Isaac, I need your help,” he tells him.

Isaac removes his hand carefully, not in any way striking Stiles as it would cause problems for him, but still making his feelings clear.

“You are not getting any help from me.”

Great, he even drops using Stiles’ title altogether.

“I admire your loyalty to Derek, but this is not about my marriage.”

The lord commander scrutinises him with his eyes, as if Stiles has done something to betray him. “How could you choose to leave him when he needs you the most?”

“It is not me who will leave him. Hear me out.”

He starts explaining his plan and Isaac’s defence gradually wears down if his agreeing to help at the end is any indication.

* * *

The trial takes place in the Great Hall, three days after Stiles went to see Isaac. The proceedings of the trial itself are unfamiliar to Stiles, but it is clear how as each minute passes the faces in the room begin to look more uneasy with the development. Ivar seems to have built himself an airtight case that might just earn him the throne.

Stiles can only hope Isaac won’t be late. He keeps glancing at the door waiting for Isaac to come in any minute and Derek keeps glancing at him, trying to figure out what he’s anticipating. He squeezes Derek’s hand in reassurance but the king moves his hand away. There’s a sharp pain in Stiles’ chest.

“I have brought a witness, for the King,” a voice announces from the end of the hall.

Stiles makes a mental note to go pray in the chapel before he departs from Mercia.

“Which King?” Ivar snickers in reply.

The Lord Commander of the King’s Guard walks forward, a middle-aged woman accompanying him. “The true King, Diederik,” he gives Stiles a small nod as he speaks. Stiles can feel Ivar watching their silent communication.

Isaac stops in the middle of the hall where everyone can get a clear look of him, before gesturing to the woman next to him. “This is Helen, the midwife who helped deliver Ivar to term. Come forth, Helen, and share your truth.”

The woman lifts her chin and starts talking.

“When you are a midwife, you remember the ones you lost before they have a chance to cry, you remember the ones who are heaven-sent, and you remember ones that are so difficult, the rest of the times feel like a chore to you. Ivar was the latest. He choked himself on his placenta and made his mother bleed so much. It was already predicted, the difficult labour, for his mother was barely as old as five and ten. I remembered that day very well, as it was a week after I moved to Eglen.”

Ivar looks bored. “What is the point of this woman’s prolonged story telling?”

“We’ve listened to you, now it’s her turn. Continue, Helen,” Councillor Lydia says, shooting daggers at Ivar.

Helen does as she’s asked.

“I also remembered that day, because it was my twentieth name day. I had celebrated with my love at the time, celebrating the boy I helped brought into the world as well as my first step into adulthood,” she pauses before adding, “My name day is on the twelfth day of the fourth month.”

Ivar rises from his seat, no longer looking bored. Stiles takes a small victory in this. “No!”

“It means the King was born first,” hummed Vernon.

“You would believe lies told by a senile woman who was put up by the prince consort?”

“As I recall, the maester who wrote you your birth letter was also senile,” Isaac pipes in, his voice ringing clear. “He might be telling us what he knows, but there is no telling if they are accurate. Helen has letters written by her daughter, every year for thirty years, delivered on her name day. Exactly on the twelfth day of the fourth month. She has her own birth letter, if you would like to see.”

Cold rage awakens in Ivar's voice when he speaks again, “You did this.” He takes a step forward in Stiles' direction, an index finger pointed at him.

Derek instinctively moves in front of Stiles in a familiar mannerism. Even now, Stiles suspects he will never get used to being protected by Derek.

“I have not seen Helen before this court,” Stiles reveals, stepping sideways so that he’s not hidden behind Derek’s shoulder. “I sent an envoy to seek for her and explain to her the claims that are being made. What she testified to is of her own doing. I did not promise her any reward.”

Ivar, apparently, is a sore loser.

"That arrow should have gotten rid of you!” he shouts, then stops short. He realises too late what has come out of his mouth in a moment of fury. He’s betrayed by his own words.

Stiles couldn’t see Derek’s face, but the tension that rises in him and settles on his shoulders is as clear as the panic conveyed in Ivar’s eyes.

Derek unsheathes his sword and strides toward his half-brother. "Draw," he commands.

Ivar, who was unarmed, looks around wildly. Tradition dictates that there should be someone in the court to lend him a sword, but all the men present remains unmoving.

For a moment there Stiles thinks he is going to yield, since he can not fight a duel without his own sword, but then Derek flips his and hands it to Ivar in one smooth move, hilt first. Stiles' heart drops to his stomach. What is he doing?

Ivar accepts it. Derek extends an arm away from his body, palm facing upward. Isaac is first—from the room in its entirety—to step forward. He gets down on his knee and offers his king a sword. Ivar watches the scene unfold with his beady eyes, his composure shaken. He does not expect it, that much is clear to Stiles.

A beat. Derek takes his stance, waiting.

"I yield," Ivar finally croaks, throwing Derek’s sword to the floor. A wise choice. Even in the unlikely event that he defeats Derek in the fight, no one in the Great Hall will let him walk out with all his limbs intact. No one, including Stiles.

Derek bends down to pick up his sword and places it neatly back in his scabbard.

“Commander, arrest my half-brother for attempted murder on the prince consort and myself. He shall stay in one of the black cells awaiting sentecing.”

Isaac doesn’t need to be told twice.

* * *

Stiles returns to his quarters and starts cleaning out his belongings. He’s halfway through when someone knocks on the door.

“Going somewhere?”

“Cora.”

She gives him a smile and for the first time, it pains Stiles to see that radiant smile because he knows soon he won’t be able to anymore.

“A getaway with my brother to celebrate?” she inquires, folding a shirt and placing it neatly on Stiles’ luggage.

Stiles shakes his head weakly, “Not quite.”

“Where are you going, then?”

Cora picks up another shirt and starts folding. He observes her and considers telling her, but eventually decides against it. It wouldn’t do anybody any good for him to air his and Derek’s dirty laundry anyway.

“I’m heading to Armoor in the morning.”

She stops folding and puts a hand on his shoulder, worried. Stiles hates lying to her, especially if it's going to weigh on her consciousness.

“So soon? Is everything all right? Your brother? Your father’s fine too, isn’t he?”

He pats Cora’s hand on his shoulder. “Yes, yes, they are doing great.”

She breathes out in relief and goes back to folding.

“How long are you to be gone for?”

“A while,” Stiles answers vaguely.

“I’d like to think that over the course of your stay here we’ve become friends,” she tells him calmly.

Stiles pauses. “We have.”

“Then what are you not telling me?”

He plays with his cufflinks and sits on the bed, Cora still doing more folding like they’re not in the middle of an important conversation.

“I’m not coming back,” he admits.

She presses her lips together in disapproval. “Is my brother aware of the fact?”

“He’s the one who told me to go.”

“In what words?”

“Hurtful ones.”

Cora sighs. “I will miss you. No one here is good enough to play chess with me except for you.”

“You’re okay with this?”

“I’m not going to ask you to stay. Neither is Derek, if that’s what you’re hoping for.”

Of course, of course Stiles’s the only one who’s been fooled in this scenario and it took him this long to realise it. No wonder Derek has him beat no matter what strategy he used, it turns out that he’s just blind. He feels a headache coming.

“Right,” he mutters, a bitter taste in his mouth. “It’s stupid, isn’t it? I walked into this knowing fully well no love can come out of it, but then for some time, it seemed like this might be the exception. I got my hopes up. Now I know it isn’t and I’m the only one hurting.”

Cora flicks a finger at his forehead, prompting Stiles to look at her in shock. “That’s the opposite of what I meant,” she chides. “Derek’s not going to ask you to stay because he loves you. He wants to you make your own decision, out of your own volition. He wants you to stay because you want to, not because you feel obligated to. So do I.”

“He— what?”

She sits down at the edge of the bed next to him. “Look, he’s not the best person when it comes to expressing his feelings. He thinks that it would be a burden to voice what he wants. Haven’t you noticed it? He rarely ever, if not never, says what he wishes outright.”

Stiles can only gape at her because that makes sense to him. She’s making great points in her arguments and Stiles doesn’t even have enough to build up a counter-argument. Cora laughs at his expression.

“Quite a lot to process, I know. Well, if you think going is the best option, I won’t try to talk you out of it. Just… don’t leave without making it clear to Derek how you truly feel. Honesty is often the best policy in marriage.”

“You’re too wise for your own good,” he tells her in amazement.

She pats his legs. “I’m sagacious.”

* * *

Derek goes down the steps to the dungeon to visit his half-brother after talking about the terms of his imprisonment to the Council. Ivar seems to be expecting him.

"You know what's ironic?” he wonders aloud as Derek comes into his cell with a torch in his hand, the flames from it illuminating his features.

"Do enlighten me,” Derek prods.

Ivar fixes his gaze on him. ”If I had come to you without any pretense, without any ulterior motive, you might have given me a title along with lands for me to profit from.”

Derek leans against the wall and does not move, although his shadow dances on the floor, seemingly without permission.

"No, I wouldn’t have,” he says finally, after a thought.

"No? I was so sure of it."

"I would have found you a place in the castle."

To which Ivar replies, ”You can still do that.”

It’s true. Derek can forgive him. Derek does forgive him. He forgives him for wanting more that what he has in life, for demanding what is denied from him by their father, for lying to get what he wants. What he thought he deserved.

But he couldn’t find it in himself to forgive Ivar for one thing.

"Not after you tried to assassinate the love of my life."

While it is true that not a single scratch was left on Stiles during this attempt, the thought of it alone is enough to make Derek’s blood boil.

"Is he?"

"Yes, he is."

"You are letting the love of your life leave you, then."

"It is because he is the love of my life that I must let him leave."

Ivar nods. Derek thinks maybe he understands what it means. Maybe he is capable of such comprehension of love.

"Well, in another life things might be different, brother."

Derek knocks on the wooden door to signal the guard and they open it for him.

"In another life,” he agrees. He steps out of the cell and decides not to leave the torch as he initially planned, instead opting to let Ivar suffer in the dark, to allow it consume him both from inside and out.

* * *

Derek returns to his room after the short visit only to find Stiles putting his clothes into a leather case.

“I owe you everything,” he admits, trying to ignore the pain that arises from the knowledge that he has to let Stiles go.

Stiles gives him a glance over the shoulder. “You did take an arrow that was meant for me, so, for now, we are even.”

“Are you packing?”

Stupid. He’s asking something he already knows the answer to, even though he wishes by some miracle Stiles would say no instead.

“I leave at first light,” is the reply he gets.

His heart aches. His body aches. He knows why Stiles did what he did, and it was smart. Incredibly strategic, even. He couldn’t even hold it against him. To support the candidate who’s more likely to hold the peace between their kingdoms for the throne would definitely benefit Armoor. This time it happens to be Derek and he did what must be done for the good of his people. Derek would’ve done the same, but still some parts of him wish Stiles would have done it out of… love. Not just for his people, but for him.

“I truly wish you all the happiness,” he tells him. “I will come to visit you in Armoor, if I am invited.”

He doesn’t get a reply from Stiles. He thinks he should’ve gotten used to it by now, but it still hurts.

“I will leave you to it. Thank you, again.” Derek turns around to leave.

“I thought you are a King,” Stiles speaks then, hesitant. He still has his back towards Derek.

Derek has no idea when is the next time they might have a conversation again, so he’s all for trying to keep this one last as long as possible.

“You helped make sure of that. Why?”

Stiles’ words come slurred, like he’s trying his best not to cry. “Then why are you not fighting for what you have?”

He turns to face Derek.

“What do I have?”

“What do you have?” Stiles shudders, “My heart.”

“I—“ Derek frowns. “I did not know that.”

“Your skull is as thick and as impenetrable as your battle armour, perhaps that is why,” Stiles rubs his eyes tiredly.

Derek takes a step forward, deciding to be brave.

“Stiles, what do you want?”

“To be with you,” he announces without missing a beat.

“Where?”

“Here,” his voice breaks with emotion, “at home.”

Derek takes three long strides to close the distance between them and scoops Stiles into his arms.

“You are so stupid,” Stiles tries to say as his face is buried in Derek’s shoulder.

Only Stiles would choose a romantic moment to call Derek stupid for the first time. To his face, at least.

“That is not the way to talk to your husband.”

“You would have let me leave,” Stiles accuses.

“I thought to declare the whole country sieged, so you won’t be able to pass through the border.”

He pulls back from the embrace only to tell Derek, “Idiot.”

“I am a simple man.”

“You are a great man.”

Derek laughs happily. “I love you.”

A pause.

“Say it again,” comes the demand from Stiles.

Derek leans in, his mouth right next to Stiles’ ear. “I love you, Mieczysław, wholeheartedly and unequivocally. I would take a thousand poisoned arrows to the heart for you.”

He presses a soft kiss to Stiles’ cheek, then to the sensitive spot below his jaw.

“You’d die,” Stiles comments.

“No,” Derek disagrees, “you won’t let me.”

* * *

“I have two requests that will be difficult to push through as they deal with tradition and technicalities, but it will please me if we put our best efforts toward making these requests happen.”

Derek sits on the chair at the end of the table, Stiles to his right and Cora to his left. It’s unusual for Cora to be present in council meetings, but Derek called for her to join them this time. Stiles doesn’t think much of it.

“What are they, Your Majesty?”

“I want to rule as equals.”

Stiles is nodding his head along until the full weight of Derek’s words registered with him. He turns around to look at his husband so fast it almost strains his neck.

“You want to make Stiles a King,” Cora clarifies.

Councillor Erica mulls it over before saying, “That is difficult. Unprecedented.”

Of course it’s unprecedented! Stiles doesn’t even come from this kingdom, in what world would he be allowed to rule it?

“Yes, but not impossible.”

“He is the heir presumptive to another kingdom,” Councillor Vernon points out, “If anything were to happen to both you and his older brother, God forbid, he would rule two kingdom. It is a conflict of interest.”

Derek looks at Stiles, who probably has the most dumb-struck expression on his face, because he can see Derek forcing down a laugh. Not that he has any control over his facial muscles at this point.

“He will not be the heir presumptive to Armoor for long. The Princess Allison is carrying a child and women are allowed to rule in Armoor, which brings us to my second request.”

He turns back to the council.

*Your Majesty?”

“To allow the female line to rule. We will slowly adapt and assimilate our culture with that of Armoor’s as we hope to unite our kingdom as one, if not in my time, then in the next generation. One empire.”

There’s silence for a moment. Derek’s not only asking for one thing, but two things that will change the entire history of the kingdom. It makes sense to Stiles why he wanted Cora in the room. He’s naming her his heir in front of the council without asking anyone’s permission. Not that Stiles has any doubt that Cora would make a great ruler.

Councillor Lydia breaks the silence. “It shall be done.”

“Councillor Lydia,” Councillor Vernon warned.

“It is a move toward a more progressive Mercia, which we would be fools not to stand behind. The word of the King is law, so his requests shall be done,” she gives him a pointed look. “It will not be easy, or quick, but it will happen. I will see to it.”

Derek nods, satisfied. He leans back in his chair and gives Stiles a smile.

* * *

Later, when they finish preparing to retire, Stiles corners Derek until he’s backed up against the wall. Derek doesn’t say a word, only looks down at him curiously. They’re so close Stiles can see the specks of grey in the green of his eyes.

“You never asked me if I wanted to be King.”

Derek links his arms around Stiles’ waist and pulls him close. “You would have said no.”

“If you knew that, then why did you do it?”

“Because you are too humble to admit that you are fit for kingship, which I have no doubt you are. You will be a great king, even better than I am, and I am selfish enough to want my people to benefit from having a great king,” he admits.

Stiles glares at him. Then he melts.

“See, this way of speaking to people who share your bed is why there’s no wonder some of them refuses to leave,” he pushes Derek away.

Derek tightens his hold. “I only speak this way if they are married to me.”

“Sweet talker.”

Stiles steps on Derek’s foot on purpose to remove himself from his embrace. He throws Derek a mischievous grin.

“I want to run an idea by you,” Derek says.

Stiles removes his shirt. “Is it bigger than submitting my name for the throne?”

“Yes,” comes the quiet confession.

“I am listening, my love.”

“Let’s visit Armoor. I have an overdue appointment with your father.”

Derek’s full of surprises today, apparently.

Stiles turns around, his face filled with dread. Derek sees the look on his face and immediately balks.

“Is— is that not something you want? I wish to… I wish to properly declare my intentions with you to him.”

Stiles shakes his head fervently. “You can not.”

The tone of his voice makes Derek’s heart race and not in a good way. The king sits down on the bed, preparing himself for the worst.

“What are you saying?”

“You can not come to Armoor and tells my Father, the King, that you have taken me for your own. He will die of a heart attack. You will be executed in the city square.”

Derek stares at him, unable to reply. Stiles’ words are probably not making any sense to him.

“I am his baby boy!” Stiles screeches.

“You’re ashamed,” Derek accuses.

Stiles throws his hand up in the air. Derek’s missing the point by a whole mile.

“Oh, for the love of God.”

Stiles walks to the door and opens it without even bothering to put his shirt back on because he doesn’t care who sees him bare-chested in his own room. He doesn’t care if the whole world knows he sleeps with Derek without any garments on.

“Where are you going?”

He rolls his eyes and shouts out the door, “The King and I are going to have a very long coupling marathon. No one is to enter our chambers unless summoned. If a war breaks out when we are still doing it, slip a message through the bottom of the door!”

He slams the door and listens for the low giggles that are surely coming. When they do, he raises his eyebrows at Derek challengingly.

“You are ridiculous.”

He walks up to Derek, standing in front of the bed. “I’m not ashamed. I will never be ashamed of you. Of us. It’s just… would you want someone to come to you and inform you all the things they wish to do or has already done with Cora?”

“I am utterly terrified of said prospect,” he admits.

“That is how my Father would feel, unfortunately.”

Derek’s not done yet, though, because he continues talking, “Though if Cora loves them, they will have my blessing.”

Stiles knows exactly what he’s doing just by the look on his face.

“You are baiting me.”

“I don’t know what you mean.”

“I love you, wholeheartedly and unequivocally,” Stiles tells him, repeating the words Derek had said to him nights ago. “We will leave for Armoor in a fortnight. In the meantime, you should get your affairs in order in case we don’t make it back.”

“Yes, Your Majesty.”

Stiles hits him in the arm. Derek probably doesn’t feel it with all the muscle he has. “Don’t call me that.”

“Yes, husband.”

“Mhm. Better,” Stiles leans him to kiss him.

Derek flips them over without moving away from Stiles’ lips, Stiles now positioned underneath him. “Before I get preparing,” he gasps when they separate, “I believe someone said something along the lines of… a coupling marathon?”

“Who said that?”

Derek leans in to whisper in his ear, ”I'll make good on my promise before."

As good as that sounds, Stiles can’t remember if he’s made any promises to him today besides promising him the throne.

"Which one?” he asks curiously.

Derek’s voice is husky and deep when he answers the question. "You can top me.”

He leans back to look at Stiles. There’s a nervous aura around him, but when Stiles surges up to capture his mouth again he can feel the tension dissipating away from his body. Stiles sinks back into the bed and reaches out to tuck a stray lock of hair behind Derek’s ear.

"Would you like that?" Derek asks him.

Stiles definitely would.

"Guide me,” he tells him.

Derek nods. ”As you wish."

* * *

From afar, Stiles can make out the welcoming banners that have been put up for his arrival. The welcoming party, too. Isaac stands tall at the front, in full gear. He marches his horse to go faster, he can hardly wait to go back into Derek’s arms.

"Welcome back, Your Highness,” Isaac greets him as he unmounts from his horse.

It’s been a year since his official announcement, but it still feels weird for Stiles to hear people call him Your Highness. Sometimes he wouldn’t realise that they’re addressing him instead of Derek and Derek has to give him a sign.

"Where is the King?"

Isaac tilts his head. ”I'm looking at him,” he deadpans.

"Okay, Isaac. The other King."

"He's sleeping, perhaps,” he gives Stiles’ mare a pat, “You are ahead of schedule. In rush for a reunion?”

"And here I thought to be nice to you and brought you some pineapple from Armoor.”

Stiles retrieves a sack from the back of his saddle and shoves it at Isaac. The commander accepts the package, peering the contents. He flashes Stiles a crooked smile before moving past him to welcome his brothers-in-arms that have finally caught up to their king.

Stiles makes his way into the castle and climbs the concrete steps up to the east tower. He pushes the door carefully as to not wake Derek if he’s still sleeping, but when he enters the room he finds his husband already sitting at the desk.

“Hi,” Stiles says.

Derek looks up at him. “Hello.”

“I’m home.”

“Yes.” Derek stands up to kiss him and when he does, Stiles still feels the butterflies he gets the first time they kissed.

“Good morning,” he says again.

“It is indeed.”

“Why,” he runs his fingers through Derek’s hair, “are you out of bed?”

Derek sits back on the chair and leans backward, patting his thighs. Stiles gets the signal and finds himself a comfortable position on his lap.

“I’ve been thinking.”

“That is never a good sign,” Stiles teases.

Derek ignores him completely and just jumps right into it. “Will you marry me?”

“Yes,” he replies, then pauses. “Oh, wait, that’s right, I have.”

“Well, again, then.”

Derek taps the wedding band on his finger, impatient. He’s evidently not in the mood for Stiles’ witty repartees.

Stiles smiles, but shakes his head in disagreement. “I’m quite sure it doesn’t work like that.”

“Marry me in Mercia, for who I am,” Derek makes it clear. “Not to end a war, not to solidify a treaty, not to—“

Stiles puts a hand over his mouth. He understands now the reason behind the odd request. Even with all the progress they have made in their relationship, the fact still remains that it didn’t start from a place of mutual trust. Derek wants to change that, he wants not to have the horrors of the war hanging over their heads anymore.

He wants them to be married because they choose to.

It’s the most romantic thing Stiles thinks anyone could do for him.

“Yes,” he tells Derek. “Yes, a thousand time over.”

He removes his hand from Derek’s mouth only so he can gain access to it, attacking Derek with kisses all over his face. He feels giddy, rightly so.

“I thought I would have to beg.”

Stiles stops kissing him and leans back to look him right in the eyes as he tells him, “You still can, if you want.”

Derek laughs. “You like to play me.”

“I have to keep you on your toes, somehow.”

“I am getting too old to follow your antics,” Derek replies, resting his forehead on Stiles’.

Stiles holds his hand and squeeze it. “No, you’re not.”

“I am getting too tired, then.”

“Are you sure you want to marry someone this tiresome?”

He doesn’t intend it to be an indication of his insecurity, but that’s the way it came out. Derek, to his credit, erases any doubts he has when he answers the question with absolute certainty.

“Never been surer of anything my entire life.”

“I don’t want a big ceremony.”

“Done.”

“I want Scott to be here, though.”

“Done.”

“Permission to wear pants to our wedding?”

“Done, done and done.”

Stiles pulls him up from the chair and leads them to the bed. He hasn’t seen his husband in a fortnight and he’s welcomed back with a proposal, now he has to do something just to match Derek’s enthusiasm of his coming home.

He doesn’t worry about it too much, though. They have all the time in the world.

**Author's Note:**

> I hope you guys enjoyed it! Comments are highly appreciated. :)


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